


Pandora's Promise

by cegodfre, Lilith Sedai (orphan_account)



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:33:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 27,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28096971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cegodfre/pseuds/cegodfre, https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Lilith%20Sedai
Summary: Raoul is slain in an accident on his and Christine's wedding day. A blow to the head leaves Christine suffering from amnesia. Will this second chance bring Erik success in winning Christine's heart? R. Angst, romance, first-time.
Relationships: Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17





	Pandora's Promise

**Author's Note:**

> Pandora's Promise  
> by Cara Liane (Lilith Sedai circa 1990) (lilith_sedai@hotmail.com)

This is the use of memory:

Of love beyond desire, and so liberation

From the future as well as the past.

\-- T. S. Eliot

The Vicomte de Chagny's decorated carriage pulled away from the Madeleine. Four horses drew it, stepping proudly, their necks arched by check-reins, their hooves clattering gaily on the cobbled pavement. Onlookers and well-wishers alike stepped out of the way, some laughing, others dabbing at their eyes with kerchiefs or sleeves. A small corner of gauzy cloth, shining like gossamer, blew out from the coach's open window, brushing against the mass of spring flowers which covered the entire vehicle, their shining yellow blossoms brilliant enough to humble the gilt embellishments which served for more everyday adornment. The bit of blowing material was pure translucent white, trimmed with delicate lace. A bridal veil.

From atop the building, perched precariously behind the decorative molding of an arched ceiling vault, an unseen spectator replaced his hat, dry-eyed. No invitation had solicited his presence, yet he had come. He had come to watch her enter the church alone and to see her leave it, on her husband's arm.

The carriage disappeared around a corner, removing even the tiny bit of blowing gossamer from his sight. It was finished, then. He sighed unconsciously, glancing down to the slowly dispersing crowd of wedding guests. He released his handhold on the molding and simply slid down the rounded curve of the vaulted rooftop, until the fierce head of a stone gargoyle stopped his descent. Quickly he made his way to a more secluded portion of the streets which surrounded the cathedral, and there he dropped to the ground.

There was really, he thought vaguely, no place for him to go now. No place at all.

He adjusted his clothing and smoothed his cloak, ignoring the wide-eyed glances of the few pedestrians who had seen him descend. None of them had ever seen or heard of him before, and none of them would again. He set out at random, with a deceptively purposeful stride. No place at all. He laughed harshly, unaware of the sound.

The streets of Paris swallowed his dark, straight figure, his proud posture giving no indication of the heavy burden of lonely grief which bowed his heart.

Christine's hand rested inside her husband's palm. She still wore her elaborate veil, though it was thrown back and no longer hid her blushes when Raoul looked at her. He did so almost constantly, his eyes bright with pleasure as he surveyed his new bride.

Warm, pale sunlight filtered through the flowers which nearly obscured the windows. She could smell the faint bittersweet scent of daffodils riding on the breeze which circulated through the carriage, teasing at her carefully arranged hair.

Raoul smiled and squeezed her hand gently. "We'll be home soon," he promised her. The ride had been a long one, but it was nearly over.

Christine nodded and blushed again. Raoul had planned a huge banquet to formally welcome his bride into his large country villa. After the feast there was to be an orchestra and dancing, which would last late into the evening. Even now the guests would be making their way from the Madeleine to Raoul's country house, their conveyances following in the wake of the bridal coach.

They would arrive only minutes before their houseguests. They would have to hurry upstairs to their room, so as not to be caught and forced into the duties of host and hostess before they had a chance to spend a few quiet hours resting and preparing for the evening's festivities.

Christine slipped to the outer edge of the seat, reaching and parting the flowers which nearly obscured her window. They were approaching the southern boundary of Raoul's estate, which was defined by a wide, singing creek within a twelve-foot gorge, spanned by an elaborate stonework bridge with a wooden roof.

Christine frowned. Another carriage was approaching the bridge, from within the estate grounds. The small tilbury was drawn by only two horses, but they were running at a dead gallop. At this rate, they would meet exactly in the middle of the bridge.

"Look, Raoul!" Christine spoke with alarm.

The Vicomte de Chagny rose, pushing her gently down into the seat, and leaning over her to put his head through the window.

"There's no driver in that--," he gasped, and she heard him shout at their own driver.

The coach lurched sickeningly. There was a scream of horses and a wrenching crash--

Christine became conscious of ice-cold wetness below her back. Water, trickling between her shoulder blades. She frowned faintly. Water? She opened her eyes, blinking. Intolerable glare of the sun directly overhead, framed by indistinct, shattered shapes.

She lifted her hand to shade her eyes, wincing at a sharp ache in her side as she did so. Broken wood shifted away from her rising arm. A door swung above her face, awry on a single hinge. She was uncomfortably pinned beneath a motionless, heavy object. Warm, pliant. A person's body.

She turned her head to see who was lying atop her, but a wave of agony crashed through her skull, making her stomach clench with nausea.

She lay still, her eyes shut once more. The trickle of water increased slightly, freezing her whole back. She moved her arm again, groping sightlessly. A man's velvet coat beneath her fingertips, more shards of splintered wood. She touched herself, her fingers moving over her face and hair in reluctant exploration. She found a painful knot and a mat of wet stickiness in her hair. The liquid was warm in comparison to the icy water in which she lay.

Voices penetrated her sluggish mind. They were high with alarm. Of course, she realized vaguely. A crash, a wreck. The coach in which she lay must have fallen into a stream or a river. That would explain the cold water.

She frowned again, trying to sort through the pain and the chill to find a memory of how she had arrived here. She didn't know. She'd been in Paris, applying at the conservatoire to see if they would train her for performing at the Opera Populaire. It was her last hope for survival, now that her father had died of consumption, leaving her penniless and stranded in France.

She couldn't remember leaving the interview, but she must have done so. She must have used her last few pennies to gain passage to some lodging in this coach. And now it had crashed.

The wood beneath her shifted, and water rose a little higher around her shoulders. In spite of the pain in her head, she knew she must move. If the coach sank while she was still pinned within it... she had to free herself so that she could escape.

Pressing her palm against the throbbing lump on her head to steady the ache, she struggled to free herself and sit up. Hands reached in and caught her. Men were lifting her, their voices babbling. Voices which knew her name. "I'm fine," she answered their frantic inquiries, wishing that the world would stop spinning about her.

The two men set her on a well-tended green lawn, returning to the battered carriage from which they had removed her. Their voices were quieter now, sober. Ah, yes. They were going back for the man who had been in the coach with her, who she knew only as a heavy presence weighing down on her before she was pulled out.

They lifted him from the wreckage, their anxious voices falling silent. Christine felt her shoulders sag as she exhaled a slow sigh of pity. The blond man's neck was clearly broken, his head lolling lifelessly to one side.

The two who held her dead travelling companion gazed helplessly down at him for a moment, then carried him through the stream and carried him up the sloping bank, where they laid him out tenderly on the grass, a short distance from her. Golden daffodils began to break free of the carriage, swirling on the surface of the water, spilling over small stony waterfalls, washing away toward the distant sea.

One of the survivors, his water-soaked, mudstained livery and bloody, livid scratches on his cheeks and hands telling her that he must have been the driver of the smashed coach, sank to one knee at the dead man's side, shaking his head with stunned disbelief. The other glanced at her, his face blanching even whiter.

"Oh, Madame," he rushed to her side. "I cannot begin to tell you how sorry I am..."

Christine set aside her puzzlement at the mistaken form of address. "Accidents happen," she whispered, her eyes travelling to the wreck once again. There had been four horses. One of them still lived, its eyes rolling wildly, its breath laced with a haze of bright blood.

She dropped her eyes from the spectacle of the animal's anguish, feeling her stomach roll. At least the poor gentleman was beyond suffering.

"The horse," she begged the man. "See to that horse."

He gazed at her with astonishment, then turned, tensing with sudden sympathy at the sight of the broken, dying mare.

Christine averted her eyes as he drew forth a glittering pistol, covering her ears to muffle the echoing sound of the shot which put the suffering animal out of its misery. Another carriage drew up, its occupants emerging with cries of dismay, hurrying toward them.

"She remembers nothing?" Meg whispered, her eyes threatening to overflow onto already puffy cheeks.

"She remembers her first interview at the conservatoire," her mother answered in a shaken voice. "Nothing after that."

Meg shook her head. Three years of Christine's life, melted away into nothingness. It had to be the stress and anguish of the accident, combined with the blow to her head.

Madame Giry rose and walked to the large, lead-glazed window, gazing out onto the formal gardens of what had been Raoul de Chagny's country estate. She had been riding in the carriage which arrived first after the accident. When she arrived, Christine was sitting alone on the far bank of the river, her glorious white dress soaked and muddy, her eyes vague and oblivious.

Giry herself had been the first to truly approach Christine, as a man shot the surviving horses right before her eyes. Raoul lay on the bank near Christine, his neck plainly broken... but Christine's face was quiet and without grief. That had given the mistress of the ballet her first suspicion that things were not right with the young woman. Then Christine had recognized her, addressing her shakily but pleasantly as she came close.

It had taken nearly twenty minutes of disjointed conversation before Estelle Giry had fully realized that Christine had no idea what was truly going on. The terrible suspicion had grown and then become certainty. With disbelieving, careful questions she traced down the exact moment at which Christine's memory ceased to exist.

It had been the girl's recognition of her which initially made that difficult. However, it finally made sense when she remembered: she had been present at Christine's initial interview with the conservatoire, she had been instrumental in convincing the school to accept the orphaned, timid Swedish girl. It had been the first time they met.

Knowing her duty, Madame Giry had reluctantly proven Christine's amnesia to her by pointing out the wedding dress. She gave Christine a moment to recover from that surprise, then softly she drew her attention to Raoul, and she held Christine's hand as she explained the dead man was her husband of only a few hours.

The girl had not taken it well. She had initially refused to believe that the dead man before her was the young boy, Raoul de Chagny, whom she remembered running into the sea for her scarf, whom she had last seen years ago. How would she have met him again, after all this time? Certainly there was no way she could have married Raoul de Chagny, even if they had met by chance.

Finally a doctor had been fetched to examine her. The man advised that she be taken to the Chagny villa and put to bed. Perhaps her memory would return within a few days. It often happened that way, after all. Certainly, though, they should tell her no more, since it only served to distress her. The doctor left them with the doleful remark that her memory should return as soon as she was able to cope with her young husband's death.

Phillipe, the Comte de Chagny, had graciously offered to house those guests who had no other lodgings and could not make their way home by evening. He had borne up well under the grief of his young brother's untimely death, Madame Giry thought. He had even thought to offer to allow her and Meg stay here with Christine.

"A widow," Meg's sorrowing murmur penetrated her mother's thoughts. "How terrible..."

Yes. How terrible, and after all that had happened, too! They had finally thought themselves to be past the influence of tragedy. She frowned. At least there could be no suspicion directly cast on the Opera Ghost this time, though there had been the inevitable dark murmurs of curses and evil luck.

No, the Phantom was blameless in this. The accident had been carefully reconstructed. Madame Giry sighed and began to tell Meg what she knew. One of Raoul's boy grooms had driven the runaway tilbury and team that caused the accident. He had gone out with the aim of fetching Phillipe and his wife from their neighboring estate for the wedding banquet and dance in honor of Raoul's bride.

The boy was adequately experienced with horses, but he did not often drive a team. As the warm spring sunshine beat down on his head, he had grown sleepy and finally drowsed off just as the tilbury neared the bridge. As his body slid peacefully to one side, the reins tightened, and the horses responded by wandering slightly from the road, onto the level lawn. The tilbury was pulled askew by the soft earth of the lawn, and a corner of it dislodged a hive which housed bees that made honey for the manor house.

The bees had swarmed out in a rage, stinging both the groom and his horses. As a result, the horses bolted, throwing the boy from the seat and onto the lawn. The terrified animals fled from the searing stings, instinctively following the roadway.

Tragically, the driver of Raoul and Christine's carriage had also been inattentive, watching the birds flit about and listening to them singing happily in the warm spring sunshine. Because of the noisy creek, he had remained unaware of the runaway tilbury thundering toward them until Raoul shouted and the galloping hooves rang on the bridge. As they were not yet on the bridge themselves, he had instinctively yanked his own team aside to avoid a collision. Unable to make such a tight turn within the traces, the horses stumbled over the edge of the small gorge, dragging the wedding coach behind them. Made vulnerable by his position hanging out the window, Raoul was doubtless killed instantly, his neck snapped by the impact of the coach striking the rocky stream bed. Ironically, his position had probably shielded Christine from more serious injury, his body cushioning the impact for her.

Now, Madame Giry suspected, there would be a legal dilemma. She suspected she already knew how it would end. Christine had been the legal bride of Raoul de Chagny, but their marriage had not been given the chance for consummation. Legally, therefore, Christine was Raoul's widow, but in the light of her continued virginity, she would have no right to his title or his wealth. Madame Giry supposed Phillipe might settle an allowance on her, making it possible for her to live in moderate comfort, but he could hardly be expected to welcome her into the family.

"What will she do?" Meg asked her mother softly, her thoughts running in much the same direction.

"I don't know," Estelle answered honestly. She moved to her daughter's side, stroking the girl's shoulder. "We should go to bed," she suggested. "There's nothing more we can do tonight. Perhaps her memory will return tomorrow."

Reluctantly Meg did so, and her mother followed shortly, her resilience worn thin by fatigue and pity.

"The Vicomte de Chagny is dead." A sourceless whisper. Puerile gossip, ridiculous tales of scandal. Other voices. "Accident... terrible... married only today, and to a chorus girl of all things..."

The babble of the city's gossiping citizens finally penetrated Erik's preoccupation, and he drew up short, frowning. Two men stood nearby, murmuring between themselves. As he watched, another joined them. They drew the third fellow in, speaking in quick, hushed voices.

Erik approached them, keeping his mask in shadowed profile. "Your pardon, Messieurs. What is that you said?"

They told him readily, with the instinctive, petty common love for gossip and a juicy story. Raoul de Chagny had just been killed in a tragic carriage crash caused by runaway horses, leaving behind a great fortune and his bride of only a day--

As the men began to repeat themselves and to elaborate on Christine's dubious past as an entertainer, Erik left them without thanks, his mind whirling. Had Christine been injured? He must know.

Moving silently, he approached a dainty white mare which stood unattended with several other horses outside a tavern. He stroked her muzzle gently, winning her trust instantly, as he had always been able to do with animals. Loosening the rein which held her tied, he swung up on her back and guided her softly away with the slightest pressure of the rein against her neck.

Once away from the tavern, he urged her to a canter with a murmur and a light touch of his unspurred heels. He knew where Raoul's country estate lay, though he had never visited it.

He rode out of the city, thinking of nothing but Christine's well-being. As he rode, the moon rose and shone softly on the sleepy countryside. He could hear the faint, startled coo of doves that awakened as he rode beneath their nests in the branches which arched over the road. The horse he had stolen had a smooth, even gait, the beat of her hooves faintly muffled by the dew-softened earth.

At last he approached the lights of the Chagny manor, his mouth set tight. He spied the remains of Raoul's carriage in a stream. No-one had even bothered to clear away the dead horses. His stolen mare whickered and balked from the scent of her dead kindred, dancing and refusing the way. He found himself forced to dismount and lead her across the bridge, singing softly to calm her, shielding her eyes from the gruesome silhouette of the wrecked carriage and the splayed, broken limbs of the team which had drawn it to its fate.

Christine had to be all right, he reassured himself, hating the feeling of uncertainty as he stood below the lamp-lit windows, wondering what he ought to do next.

Making up his mind, he led his mare toward the stables. They were dark and silent except for the calm sounds of resting horses, their teeth grinding comfortably, their tails swishing and their feet thumping occasionally. The stable hinges were well-oiled. He smiled as the huge door swung open without a sound.

Immediately within, he found what he sought: an empty stall, its manger half-filled with hay. Probably it had belonged to one of the unfortunate animals which had drawn Raoul's carriage. He stabled his ill-gotten mare within, making a resolution to return for her. He pulled off her bridle to allow her to eat, reassuring himself that he could replace it in moments, since she accepted it easily. Her past owner had trained her well.

With an ironic half-smile, he closed the stable doors and glided silently across the well-tended lawn to the rear of the villa. A few lights shone in the kitchen and in upstairs bedrooms.

He paused outside the kitchen door, listening. He had no idea where Christine might be, but he could perceive no signs of life within the house, so perhaps he might be able to find her without being caught, even though he might have to search the entire villa.

He let himself in, his cloak making a faint rustle against the glossy board floor. A large, greasy cook was sitting by the cooling stove, her head fallen to one side. She snored loudly. He passed her with a mocking nod, taking a crude tallow candle from its sconce on the wall, lighting it at the lantern.

Choosing darkened rooms, he slipped through the lower story of the house. From one parlor he heard the sound of men's voices. He glanced through the door, which hung slightly ajar.

Raoul was laid out in an ornate coffin, still wearing the coat he had worn to be married, surrounded by the same spring flowers which had been plucked for the celebration of the happiest day in his life. He was pale and his flesh had sunken, his features pinched in death. Phillipe, the Comte de Chagny, sat at his shoulder, his head drooping into one weary hand. A priest lingered nearby, chanting softly in Latin. Candles wavered in the oppressive air, feeling the draught of the open door. There were other men within, speaking infrequently to one another in hushed voices.

Erik slipped away from the mourning parlor with hardly a thought of his rival, now that the boy was dead. Christine's welfare dominated his mind fully, and he glanced up the broad stairwell which arced gracefully out of the hall. The guest rooms and the family's own bedrooms should be above.

He ascended the stair and surveyed the hallway which extended into darkness on either side. One wing would be reserved for the family, the other for guests. On the right side, several doorways showed telltale cracks of light streaming from beneath, illuminating the expensive, thickly patterned oriental carpeting.

He slipped down that side of the hall, listening at each lit door, until he recognized the soft voice of Meg Giry.

He paused there a long time, trying to come to terms with what he heard. He came to himself at last with a start, realizing that the light had been extinguished beneath the door. The voices fell silent.

Amnesia. His Christine had forgotten him, had forgotten everything which had happened to her in the last three years. It was a rare condition. He had heard rumors of it, but never before encountered it personally. He recalled now that amnesia could last from a few minutes to a lifetime. He understood that usually it was accompanied by a sharp blow to the head, so Christine must have endured at least that much injury during the accident.

He shook his head, dismayed. There were possibilities inherent in this situation, of course. But none of them could be exploited until he found her and ensured that her body would recover from the accident. However, it would hardly do to make his way up and down the corridor, opening doors and shining his candle into each room to see who occupied it. Someone would surely wake and give an alarm.

His fist clenching, he moved onward, determined to finish his circuit of the hall. Perhaps someone in one of the other lit rooms would drop some word that might lead him to her.

He paused, listening at the next door, which was also lit. For a long moment no sound issued forth, then he heard a soft noise which made his heart leap. He swallowed, suddenly aware of his dry mouth. The sound came again, and he reached out, stroking the wood grain of the door tenderly. Christine might have lost her memory, but he had not. He had heard that soft, melodic fluting of breath, too delicate to be labelled a snore, a thousand times before, while standing at the bedside of his sleeping love. Christine slept within this room.

His hand closed around the heavy crystal doorknob, turning it, his entire body taut in expectation of a squeak as he pushed the door inward. There was no sound other than her rhythmic breathing.

He eased the door shut behind him, surveying the room. Entering had been a rash act... someone might have been sitting up with her. Luckily, there was no one present. The light had been left for her, in case she should waken and wonder where she was.

He set his candle aside and stepped forward, his eyes fastened to the heavy white bandage which swathed her head. He hardly noticed her smudged, muddy wedding gown lying crumpled in the corner. With a trembling hand he brushed aside the gossamer bed curtain which surrounded her. By this time, if not for fate, his beloved Christine would have been wrapped in the arms of her husband: no longer a girl, but a woman. Unclothed, satiated with the pleasures of lovemaking, the heavy ringlets of her hair flung across her husband's chest, her arms and legs entwined with his.

But she was not. Instead, she lay here alone, an absolute innocent. It wrung his heart with a curious combination of regret, joy, pity, and adoration. As if she had sensed his tumult of emotions, her dark eyelashes flickered open, her eyes struggling to focus on him, silhouetted as he was against the glow of the lamp.

He pushed away a surge of distress. He must act calm and matter-of-fact, to avoid frightening her. He never wanted to frighten her again.. Quietly he reached out, gently touching her white linen bandage. It had loosened already, as the knot beneath it receded. It was not a terribly severe injury, and her limbs seemed whole, with the exception of a few scratches and bruises.

"Who are you?" Christine murmured softly, not thinking to be frightened. Certainly his calm, self-assured manner gave her to know that he had every right to be here at her bedside, examining her injuries. It was disconcerting to be told that she had lost her memory, she reflected sleepily, but even worse not to know anyone. She had met so many people this evening, people who claimed to know her, though she had never seen them before. This man must be another of them.

"Are you a doctor?" she asked again, and he shook his head slowly. She squinted, trying to focus on his face through the amber aura of lamplight which surrounded him. He seemed unnaturally pale.

"Shhh," he whispered, his fingers brushing across her lips in a silencing gesture. "It is true, then. You do not remember." He paused for a moment. "You should rest."

She relaxed in automatic obedience, her focus clearing gradually as the sleep ebbed from her mind. What she had thought to be extreme pallor was actually a white porcelain mask, concealing half the man's face. Very unusual.

He gazed at her tenderly for a time, then helped her sit up, his arm supporting her back. Without a word, he untied the bandage which wound about her head and removed it, surveying the wound which lay beneath with a professional air. He then re-wound the linen gently, again with an ease which belied his claim not to be a physician.

She submitted to his skillful care patiently, surveying his clothing with interest. He was quite expensively dressed in immaculate evening attire, and therefore obviously a gentleman. He might be one of the noblemen of the Chagny family, possibly an uncle or an elder brother to the deceased Vicomte.

The mask seemed oddly appropriate on him, though when she bothered to think about it, she supposed he must have been called back from a masquerade party of some sort by the news of the Vicomte's death, and come to check on her without bothering to change.

Erik looked down on her, touched by her trust. His entire being yearned for her, to spirit her away with him. But riding on horseback would be hard on her, considering her head injury and the obvious stiffness of her bruises.

Still... she was just as innocent as he had initially thought, her mind transported to the days before she had ever known the Vicomte de Chagny's kisses. She remembered nothing of Erik, none of his mistakes and his inadvertent cruelties. Her sweet face showed no fear, no distress, no regret. She did not flinch from his hands as he touched her. How could he leave her here, to let others tell her of him, to let them frighten her with their unfairly harsh opinions? Imagine how she would feel, being told of him. They would speak in terms of exaggerated horror about the deformed madman who had stalked her remorselessly, who had killed her colleagues and friends at the Opera...

She would have no way to know the happiness they had shared, or the beauty of the music they made together. There would only be those ugly stories of a murderous lunatic who had kidnapped her. And she would have to cope with the fear of knowing that he had come to her in the night once already, unbidden, and that he might do so again.

If he did attempt to visit her after they had told her, there would be no more trustful acceptance. There would be no chance to touch her hand or her face, as he had just done. The moment she saw him, she would begin to scream for help. The soft, guileless faith present now in her eyes would have transmuted to terror and disgust.

In spite of her delicate condition, he could not bear to think of leaving her behind.

The others would know who had taken her, of course. They would search for him. They might even find some way to lay the blame for the Vicomte's death at his feet... though even as he weighed the pros and cons, he knew his decision was made in spite of himself. It had been inevitable from the moment he heard of her amnesia. But how could he spirit her away without alarming her?

To lie to her again... indescribably wicked and tempting, that idea. But this time he could make it work. He could be alert and prevent the rising shadows which had come between them before. He could prevent her from seeing his face this time. He could be her angel again, entice her into loving him, without the meddlesome interference of Raoul de Chagny to draw her away. It would work-- provided, of course, that she did not regain her memory prematurely.

An idea occurred to him. He could dose her with laudanum and carry her out of the house, unconscious and unknowing, as a prisoner. But either way, there was a betrayal of her sweet, childish trust. Either way he would violate her precious innocence. No, she had to come with him of her own free will. At least part of the way. At least off the grounds of the Chagny estates.

He let her sink back against her pillow, stepping away with a trembling breath. He had to have her. There was no other option in his mind.

Though she felt herself growing drowsy, Christine found her eyes would not leave the mysterious, black-cloaked man who hesitated at her bedside. He gave her an odd feeling. She was no longer entirely sure she shouldn't be frightened of him. And yet, he had given her no good reason for fear. He had tended her gently. She exhaled softly, relaxing in spite of herself.

Erik considered the most honest course he could take. Perhaps he would not be forced to lie. He would sing to her. It was likely that his voice alone would be enough to entice her to follow him. He would not speak the lie, he would not claim to be her angel. She might follow him without it... he would only do it as a last resort.

He lifted his hands to her, letting his mind wander back to previous times when he had sung with her, when she had fallen under his spell, requiring only the smallest of gestures as a command, obeying his thoughts almost before he knew he had them.

Softly he gave voice to his emotions, improvising the melody as he sang, providing soft, meaningless words.

Her lips parted in an expression of astonishment as she listened. He could see her thoughts as plainly as if they were written on her forehead. Even without the lie, her thoughts flew to her father's promise.

Her lips formed the words. Angel of Music.

I didn't lie to you, Erik thought as he continued to sing, his voice at its most persuasive, the words still childish and meaningless. Believe what you will, this time I didn't tell you a lie.

Slowly he backed away from her, letting his voice grow softer so that she strained to hear it.

Christine's slender legs slipped from beneath her blankets, her feet touching the floor. He remained still, his arms extended to her, his voice coaxing. She stood, her cotton gown falling to her ankles. She leaned against the nightstand, her legs seeming a little wobbly. In a moment she steadied, and stepped away from the bed. Reassured that she could walk, he let himself recede from her again, using all his art to seem to glide.

Entranced, her eyes rapt, she followed him.

So easy. So easy to draw her after him, to lead her into the hall, his voice the barest whisper as he drew her forward, letting himself melt into shadow so that she could hardly see him.

He led her to the stairs and backed down them effortlessly, his fingers barely touching her outstretched hand to provide the support and reassurance she needed to negotiate the steps in the near-total darkness. She groped forward, trusting in him though she could no longer see him. His angel's voice was enough, an invisible lifeline which guided her onward.

He fell silent as they passed the parlor where the priest still chanted, standing closer to her so that his eyes could pull her along with him now that he must be silent. Leading her by touching the palm of her outstretched hand with his fingertips, he was now as quiet as the ghost he had so often impersonated. Her silent, almost insubstantial presence shadowed his as he led her through the kitchen and past the loud-snoring cook. Out onto the dew-painted grass now, her white gown shining in the moonlight, her feet below it lost in shadow so that she seemed to float, a phantom in her own right.

He enticed her forward to the stable and through its door into the blackness which waited within. The white horse, already accepting him as its rightful master, whickered softly and turned, following his voice just as Christine had done. He slipped the bridle onto the sleek velvety muzzle, nestling the bit between strong teeth.

He reached and captured Christine's trembling form, drawing her against him. Her eyes caught a ray of moonlight through the stable's single window, sparkling up at him with adoration. Imagine: by now she might be Raoul's. Instead, she was his again.

He vaulted them into the saddle and urged the horse forward, still singing softly in Christine's ear, a lullaby now, his arms possessively circling her slim waist.

The white horse galloped across the rolling lawn, its hooves thudding dully on the short wet grass. Erik's black cloak flowed out behind, and Christine nestled snugly against him in the saddle, her cheek warm against his chest.

As he sang to her comfortingly, his mind raced. He could hardly take her back to Paris. Even the lowliest of the Opera's employees now knew where to find his home. That was the first place they would look for her. However, she would freeze if he tried to take her far: she wore only the thin nightgown, and the spring was still early enough for the nights to be quite chilly. Already she had begun to shiver. The mare had been ridden hard already this evening. She could hardly bear the weight of two all the way back to the city.

He slowed the horse, removed his cloak, and wrapped it around Christine. She sighed and settled against him, content, her weariness evident in the droop of her body.

He bit his lip. Raoul's estate was small compared to some, but large enough that there were a number of outbuildings. He had passed a gatehouse on his way in. It had seemed unoccupied. He would have to steal what he could there.

Christine's angel was uncharacteristically unprepared for this night-time raid, and he knew it. But it was far too late to back out now, and feeling the soft weight of her in his arms, he was not capable of regretting his hasty action. He would find a way to make things comfortable for her.

They reached the main road, and he glanced up and down its length. A thought struck him. He frowned, considering. It was really too far, but perhaps if he cut across the countryside...

Above all, it would take time.

"I'm cold," Christine spoke her first words since he had begun to sing. She snuggled against him more tightly, her voice slurring drowsily.

Her words convinced him. He reached into his pocket, withdrawing the bottle of laudanum he had taken from her room. She had consciously chosen to accompany him now, so this would not be so much of a betrayal. "Drink this and you will sleep," he urged her, carefully judging the amount she swallowed. Christine drank willingly, though she gasped as the heavy, drugging liquor burned her throat. Within moments her body grew limp.

There, he thought with satisfaction. Now she would be easier to manage while he made the arrangements for their departure.

Quickly he dismounted from the horse and tucked his cloak firmly about her, nestling her still form against the thick trunk of an oak which stood nearby. He turned back toward the Chagny estate. The large, dark silhouette of the gatehouse loomed against the star-sprinkled sky.

He tethered the horse where it could not reach Christine, and hurried back to the silent building. She would require warm blankets and clothing.

He accomplished the theft with swift efficiency and returned to her within the half-hour. She lay where he had left her, now sleeping deeply.

Retrieving his cloak, he wrapped her in the woolen blankets he had appropriated. He had also discovered fodder for the horse. He hastily made parcels of the spoils, which included candles and a small amount of dried food to take for himself and Christine. He used knotted sheets to form crude saddlebags, and quickly slung them over the horse's back.

Finishing, he stroked the small white mare indecisively. She could not make such a lengthy trip tonight, not while carrying both of them. Neither could he carry Christine over even a small fraction of the distance they must travel. He would need another mount, one which was stronger and fresher.

There was a tavern only a few miles down the road, slightly out of the way he had chosen. They would go there, and perhaps find the horse he required.

His course decided at last, he proceeded to carry it out. He left her in the forest again while he slipped into the tavern yard to take the large, rangy stallion he had chosen. The steed was strong but tame, and would serve his purposes well.

He tied the horses together, mounted the stallion, and settled Christine to sleep before him. He set out through the woods at a slow pace, judging their direction by the placement of the moon.

The night stretched into a collage containing endless black trunks of trees and the rustle and crunch of leaves beneath the horses' feet, punctuated by the occasional splashing as they forded a stream. The swish of hooves was varied from time to time by the twitter of disturbed birds and once he heard the more coherent song of a distant nightingale. Erik had lived long in the city, and he had missed the sounds and scents of the countryside at night. It was an atmosphere with which he had once been intimately familiar, and the soft noises were like old friends to him. They were the only old friends he'd ever had.

At last the moon set and he paused, letting the horses drink from an icy stream. The sun would rise soon, making their journey more, rather than less, difficult. Certainly he would be able to see more clearly-- but then they could be seen, as well.

False dawn appeared on the horizon and he set out again, maintaining the general circle around Paris while following the lines of wooded country. These small forests were too well-kept to suit him, indicating he had strayed onto a series of estates. Still, there was no way he could have remained on the road and risked being caught. Perhaps he could avoid the houses, though, and the people as well.

When the dusk began to lengthen, he still rode. He was grateful for the return of evening. The long day of slow, careful travel and concealment had worn on his nerves. Their luck had held, for they remained unseen. His stallion had begun to grow very weary in the early afternoon, picking its way with increasingly heavy feet. Erik's own arms felt like white iron from supporting Christine's limp body during the many hours they had ridden. He gave himself and the weary animals an hour's rest. He ate while they grazed, and then rode on.

He amused himself by covering the traces of their passage: guiding the horses for miles through streams, choosing firm rocky ground for their way overland, whenever possible walking the mounts through last fall's dead leaves, which would settle and smooth with the wind. He used a dozen horse-thieving tricks he had learned among gypsies in his youth. Nobody could possibly follow the trail he had laid for more than a few feet in widely scattered locations.

Christine began to stir slightly, and to murmur. Her drugged sleep was lifting at last, but their destination was finally close at hand. They crested a slight rise and Erik drew the stallion up short, staring down into the hollow below them. There were no lights. His greatest fear had been that someone might have taken advantage of the small, abandoned cottage which lay in the cup of this hollow. Such an eventuality would have disrupted all his plans.

A hundred tumultuous emotions stirred through him as he gazed over the familiar silhouettes of hills and trees. His childhood home. This tiny house was one which his mother had moved them to live in only shortly before he had run away from her for good. This had been her final, futile attempt to escape from the world which shunned her and cursed him. If only she could have accepted him herself...

He pushed the wistful thought away impatiently. His gamble that the cottage would not be occupied had paid off. All was as it should be, for he still owned the land on which it stood. However, one never knew.

He let the weary horses meander slowly down the grassy hill toward the copse of old oaks which surrounded the small dwelling. They passed the silhouette of an old well, and he heard the crackle of holly leaves beneath the horses' hooves. Next came a soft crunch of gravel. The path was almost entirely obscured by the tall grass which had grown through it.

The tiny coop which once held his mother's fowls had fallen to pieces, its wood rotting in an untidy heap on the edge of the meadow. The cottage seemed to have fared rather better, its greening oak shingles smooth and intact. Its windows, in the final dim glow of twilight, looked like empty eyes. Their glass had once been broken by neighbor boys, who delighted in traveling several miles solely in order to throw stones and torment him and his mother. Of course she had re-glazed the windows after he left her. When there was no more need left for hiding.

The door was closed, no doubt locked. He knew his mother had died more than fifteen years ago, in the Hotel Dieu of Paris, her accommodations and upkeep provided anonymously by the son she had long thought dead. The house had not been touched since then. He had not come here in nearly forty years. It had changed little from his childhood memory.

Swallowing an involuntary tightness in his throat, he eased Christine out of the saddle and carefully stepped up the mossy stone steps onto the sagging veranda. A few deft motions with a wire disengaged the lock. It took a moment more to pry the door open, for the wood had warped. He carried her into the dark, musty living room.

Even before he made a light, he knew the furniture would be ancient and unusable. Gently he lowered Christine to the floor and hurried out to the horses, retrieving his makeshift saddlebags. Returning, he withdrew a candle and lit it deftly with a flint.

The same furnishings, down to the very paintings on the wall... dim and moldy, faded, but true to the memories of his youth. He glanced back at Christine. He must find a sleeping accommodation for her as soon as possible. He checked the two tiny bedrooms, shaking his head with annoyance. Mice had nested in each of the cotton-filled mattresses.

His shoulders rose and fell slowly in a heavy sigh. He had brought her to a hovel. His oldest home, true, but it was still a filthy, damp, stinking hovel. She had no place to sleep, there was little food to eat. There was not even wood to make a fire.

He had to provide for her, and he had to do it immediately. He hesitated, glancing at her. How could he simply leave her here to waken on the floor? Mice might disturb her. She would not know where she was. Helplessly he shook his head. He had to remain with her till she woke. He could do nothing. This indecisiveness was unlike him.

He shook his head with sudden sharpness, bringing his sudden surge of fatalistic emotion under control. He was being foolish. Scraps from the fallen coop would do for firewood, at least for this night. Tomorrow he could make more permanent arrangements. The mattresses could possibly be salvaged. There were wooden straight chairs, a table, and a rocking chair. There was grass growing in the meadow which would serve for the horses until he could provide more expensive fodder.

Somewhat cheered, he brought in the rotting wooden planks from the edge of the meadow and built a fire in the old stone fireplace, first checking the chimney for nesting birds. At last he was satisfied that he had done all he could do for the evening.

He lifted Christine, swathed in blankets, and carefully seated himself in his mother's polished wooden rocking chair, which he had drawn up before the fire. She stirred and yawned, but her lashes remained closed. He began to rock her like a child, smiling wryly, aware of the picture they would present if anyone could look through the dim, dusty windows to see them. The motion of rocking was gentle and lulling. Despite his weariness and the stiff cramped soreness of his arms, he loved the feel of her warm body inside his embrace.

Eventually he drifted off to sleep with her on his lap.

Christine awoke, blinking her eyes against a flood of morning sunlight. She didn't recognize her surroundings, a feeling which was becoming disturbingly familiar. Her head felt odd, her eyelids heavy with a dull drowsiness. She was somewhat uncomfortable, her muscles stiffened in their current position.

She let her eyes wander, first surveying the man who held her. She frowned, trying to sort out her vague memories. He was the one who had come to her room, and she had followed him, hadn't she. She'd been confused, thinking mad thoughts... she'd followed him out onto the lawn, and he'd put her into the saddle before him, and she wasn't quite certain what had happened next.

She was, however, certain of one thing: whoever he was, he had coolly removed her from the Chagny estate, and from the single person she recognized, Madame Estelle Giry.

And another certainty: he had sung to her. Christine remembered that with sudden clarity. Sung to her with the voice of an angel. She'd thought of her father, and his promise to send her the Angel of Music. Surely the voice she remembered had been that of her own angel.

But it was a man who held her now, a man shrouded in dark garments, his black fedora hat pulled low over his eyes. His arms were warm and reassuringly solid. He wore a mask. Yes, she remembered noticing it before. But who was this man, and what lay beneath that delicately sculpted white porcelain?

She reached out and touched the mask experimentally, wondering.

Erik woke with a start, his hand rising to intercept hers, protecting his mask instinctively. He forced himself to sublimate his automatic distress, his eyes softening. "Always the curious one," he murmured.

Yes. That voice. Softly melodic, filled with beautiful feeling. It was the angel's voice, it was this man's voice. It was the voice she had followed into the night.

"Who are you?" Christine whispered, abruptly becoming aware of how close her face was to his, and realizing she had spent the entire night sleeping in his arms.

His expression saddened at her tone of mild anxiety. "Your protector," he answered her evasively, helping her raise herself from his lap.

"My Angel," Christine whispered, then blushed.

Erik set her on her feet and stood, gazing at her pensively. "If that is what you want to believe," he finally answered her, "I will be your Angel. As long as you do not touch my mask." He whispered the request, his eyes holding hers as he moved closer. "Promise me you won't, Christine."

She frowned slightly, puzzled and not entirely satisfied by his entreaty.

"Promise me," he repeated, gently lifting her chin in his palm.

"I promise." Christine wondered dizzily if he meant to kiss her. The thought filled her with tingling anticipation. His breath was soft and warm on her face, his head bending closer... closer... and then he released her with subtle grace, his hand sliding across her shoulder.

Glancing down at herself, she blushed. She wore only a blanket and a thin shift, appropriate for sleeping. She drew the scratchy wool blanket closer around her shoulders. He had gone past her to one of the small windows, where he gazed out into an unmown meadow filled with wildflowers. His posture was graceful and upright, very pleasing to her eye. There was a certain studied beauty to his movements, a stealthy elegance which she found incredibly enticing, almost as much so as the mystery of his mask.

"I once lived in this place," he spoke, not turning. "But I have not visited it in many years."

She nodded, glancing about at the dusty furnishings. They were neglected and silent, with a watchful air as though they did not trust these new intruders, as if they had grown accustomed to their own silent society and were not quite pleased to welcome new occupants into their midst.

Occupants. Christine frowned slightly, tracing her fingers through the thick layer of dust which coated a spindly wooden desk. Yes, her instincts told her they were here to stay. She lifted her eyes to him, examining his clothing closely. Fine evening wear, the clothes of a wealthy gentleman, as she had noted before.

Who was he? Why had he come to her and brought her here? Why did he hide his face from her?

Could she really continue to think of it? Even now he was turning to her, his eyes penetrating her as though he read her mind, and he had begun to sing. That voice of his could eclipse a multitude of sins. It made her slavishly glad that he had brought her with him, for whatever reason he might choose. His angel voice's measured cadence melted with sweetness, its velvety, caressing tone was almost tangible. Lovely beyond all possible expression, that voice. It stole her will, it allayed her fears.

"You will teach me," Christine guessed, hardly realizing that she was being drawn to him again, till she stood gazing up into his eyes, rapt.

"I will." He smiled, and his smile radiated through her in a glorious tide of music, overwhelming her and sweeping her away.

Erik ended her 'first' lesson sooner than he would have liked, respecting the fact that she believed her voice to be weaker than it truly was. She did not remember much of his previous instruction. As a result her technique was flawed, though her voice retained the purity and strength he had helped her gain. However, her regression did not unduly discourage him. She could re-learn the forgotten lessons swiftly.

It was beyond happiness just to sing with her again. She was his own once more, hidden away in his solitary abode, seemingly resolved to stay here with him. As long as he could entrance her with his voice, she would remain with him so that she might hear more, and learn more.

He must trust that she would do so. He needed to leave her now. He had to go and acquire food for both of them and the horses. They also required clothing. Christine had only the flimsy nightgown she had worn when he took her from the Chagny manor.

"I must leave you for a while," he spoke reluctantly. "I will go for the food and clothes we need. I should return in the evening."

She nodded, entranced and more than slightly dazed by the impact of their session of music. She followed him quietly as he showed her their meager food supply and pointed out the location of the well in the yard.

Ready to leave, he hesitated before her. After reaching to touch her cheek briefly, he crossed the room. He glanced back at her once from the door and left. Minutes later she heard hooves, and gazed out the window, watching him ride away on a sturdy roan stallion, his eyes turned firmly forward, his spine straight. His beautiful black cloak billowed behind him as he kicked the horse into a trot.

Finally she shook herself from her reverie, lifting her eyes from the spot where he had disappeared from her view. She felt her nerves begin to twang, and her mind begin to pulse with a thousand urgent questions. Somehow, she did not want to face them. She would work, instead. She glanced about the dim interior of the cottage, shaking her head. Her work was cut out for her.

Though she had always aspired to become a performer, Christine had lived alone with her father for most of her life, gradually learning how to take over the duties her mother would have performed, if she had lived. This house was sadly in need of a woman's hand. She could do much before he returned.

Laying aside her blanket, she opened the doors and windows and set about exploring the house. She found a small stable, which contained various utensils and a lovely white horse. Surprised, Christine stepped forward and stroked the mare's mane. Her dark provider had trusted her enough to leave her behind with a horse and saddle. Imagine that... now she understood why he had hesitated before he went, touching her face so sadly, forcing himself to go without a second look back. She felt reassured of her safety, watching the small mare drink from its filled trough.

The question of her dark angel's identity rose in her mind irrepressibly. He had been a suitor, that much was becoming clear to her. A suitor whom she had jilted in favor of Raoul de Chagny. Upon hearing of the Vicomte's death, he had thought that his suit might become favored once more, and he had come to see her, concerned for her health and also probably hoping to be the first to express his sympathy. And she suspected he had come with the deeper thought that now she was widowed, he might eventually try to court her once more.

No doubt her loss of memory had figured heavily in his decision to bring her here, so that he might be with her while she recovered. He would be present when she regained her memory. He would be the only one available to offer comfort for her dead husband, he would be the only one to whom she could turn. And if she did not regain her memory... she might fall in love with him anyway, might she not? Those must be his thoughts.

She pondered her ideas, wondering why they raised no anger in her. They were true, almost without a doubt. They were the only explanation which could fit all the circumstances.

Perhaps she was not angry because she truly did not remember him, and because she did not remember being in love with the dead man who had been her husband. If there was no grief, there could be no anger. And if that was so, when her memories returned she might feel quite differently. She might wish to be gone from this mysterious angel, to be free of him.

But if that became true, there was the white mare in the stable, which he had left for her use. If he brought provisions, as he had promised, it would prove that he had truly gone. It would show that he had not spent his day lingering in the woods, watching to see if she would stay or go: it would prove that he trusted her.

And finally, as if she needed further convincing, there was his voice. It made her grow weak, made her tremble with adoration for him, made her sing with a beauty beyond her own comprehension. She could not abandon the authority of that voice and the bliss of singing with him. Yes, for now she was content to remain here and wait for her memories to return.

The remainder of the house was small, sparsely furnished and utilitarian. It consisted of four rooms, the one in which she had wakened, a small kitchen with a stove, and two bedrooms. The bedding they contained had been invaded by families of mice.

She grimaced with dismay and steeled herself to do what had to be done, catching a mattress by its cleanest corner and dragging it out into the sun, trying to ignore the fleeing mice which scampered everywhere, stifling a shriek when one fled across her bare toes.

As the sun sank below the hills that evening, Christine dragged the single wooden rocking chair close to the fire and drooped into it. She was worn out from her work, but the house showed the results of her effort.

The two mattresses, their cotton stuffing washed, boiled, and sun-dried in the sweet-smelling, grassy meadow, their mouse-holes cut away and neatly patched with doubled pieces of sheeting, lay on the bedsteads in each bedroom. She had made them up with the blankets and sheets her mysterious angel had brought with him. She had dusted the house while the cotton wadding and mended covers dried in the sun, evicting fieldmice and removing the accumulated dirt of long neglect. The long day of sunlight and breeze had eliminated much of the house's forgotten, musty smell. She had begun to realize this small place could be made quite pleasant, even homelike.

She wanted to sort through the contents of the house, but had been restrained by time. Still, she'd ventured to wash both her nightdress and herself, after carefully scanning the surrounding countryside for signs of habitation, to reassure herself that she would not be caught indisposed.

She had taken only a brief sponge bath and then worn a sheet wrapped about her body during the short time it took for her light garment to dry, listening nervously for the sounds of his-- she had yet to inquire what she should call him-- return, in case he was early.

Now her brief supper of dried apples, completed with a long drink of water freshly dipped from the well, had sufficed to make her drowsy. She sat quietly, listening for him to return as he had promised, gazing idly into the coals of the fireplace. She had used up most of the available firewood, along with some fallen limbs which she had gathered from the surrounding forest, in building a fire to boil the mattress stuffing out in the yard. A large iron pot, greased against rust and resting in the simple stable which leaned against the main house, had proven invaluable, making it possible for her to wash a large amount of things at once. She had found soap in the small kitchen.

She sat until the remaining flames sank nearly to ashes, and then groped her way into the back of the house, taking the smaller bedroom for herself. Trusting that he would return, she slipped between the sheets and fell asleep while watching the moonlight grow stronger through the room's two glass windows, the feature which she had chosen it for, since the other had none.

Erik returned quietly as the night neared dawn, leading his horse, which drew a small cart piled high with various belongings. He pulled up, gazing at his small cottage with definite trepidation. Would she still remain? There were no lights in the windows. He was much later than he had intended. If she had not left immediately after he set out, she might have done so when she thought he did not mean to come back as he had promised.

His heart rose into his throat. He removed the harness from the stallion, refusing to let himself panic. Leading the horse behind him, he opened the door of the tiny stable.

Relief filled him as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. Christine's mare stood peacefully where he had left her. Surely Christine would not have set out on foot, not with a horse available to her.

He tended his weary mount, taking care to provide food and water for both animals, and let himself in.

His candle showed that she was not in the main room. It also showed evidences of housecleaning. He touched the furnishings with mild surprise, glancing about. The house had been neatened and dusted, and smelled of fresh air and sunshine. She had been busy. A strange tightness welled in his throat, making his eyes sting suspiciously. He realized with surprise that he was on the verge of tears, for the first time since she left him for Raoul.

He stepped further into the house and listened for her distinctive breathing. His candle soon illuminated her where she lay in the outer bedroom, sleeping as peacefully as a small child. Further examination showed him that she had prepared a sleeping accommodation for him as well. He knew it had cost her a great deal of work to wash and repair the neglected mattresses in such a short time, particularly considering her recent injury.

She had readied the house for them to stay in it, without showing any evidence of the distress which would normally be expected of a woman in her situation. It was part of what he loved most about her, that childlike trust which led her to behave in this way. In spite of her recent tragedy and her mental confusion, she acted practically and with confidence that all would be well. She accepted his appearance in her life and his subtle mastery calmly, agreeing to give him a chance even though she could easily have fled, knowing that by the time he returned she would be far beyond his reach.

Her trust was the act of a girl who had spent her entire life alone with a loving and stern father, trusting his every judgement and being taught no fear of men. She needed the guidance of a strong man, and accepted Erik's rather outrageous liberties without questioning his motivations.

Silently he made the many trips it required to bring his load of things into the house, setting the provisions up in the kitchen. More quietly than air, he laid one of the dresses he had brought for her over the back of the straight chair in her room, including a silky, transparent chemise.

He had decided to go further than he anticipated at first, all the way back into Paris. Though it had taken him all day and most of the night to accomplish his trip, it was for the best. If he'd appeared in any of the small towns nearby, he would have excited comment and interest that could have brought their existence here to a crashing end before it ever began. He wanted no attention from neighbors or townsfolk. Public knowledge that they were here would inevitably force them to leave.

The purposes of his journey had been several. Most importantly, he had been able to gather his portable wealth from the Opera. He had brought Christine's own clothes, rather than having to wait on a tailor. He'd brought his music and other prized possessions, though there was no way to bring a musical instrument any larger than his violin. He had required a small cart to carry the load as it was, so that he could bring enough that he would not have to risk returning. That was the ultimate reason for his lateness: he had been forced to wait until the Opera grew quiet and the streets were deserted before he could bring the cart, load it, and leave without being observed.

For the second time in as many days, dawn grew over the horizon before Erik slept.

Christine woke as the sun filtered in through her easternmost window to play on her blankets. She yawned and stretched, glancing around idly. Her gaze fell on the dress which lay on her chair. So, he had returned after all, with the things he had promised.

Rising, she put on the dress, marvelling at its close fit. Just as though it had been made to her measure. How had he managed such a thing? She shrugged. Perhaps it had been made for her. When... if... her memory returned, she would know whether or not he would have had access to things which belonged to her.

Sobered by the thought of her lost memory, she sat on her bed, thinking, trying to find some inkling of lost events in her mind. Nothing. She remembered her appointment at the conservatoire as though it had truly happened the day before yesterday. Frowning, she shook her head. Could Madame Giry have lied when she said the dead Vicomte was Christine's husband? But what would she have done that for? And if it was not true, then why had she been taken to the Chagny estate and treated with honor? How had this man known her, to be able to come for her?

It did no good to think of such things. It only made her head hurt, and it frustrated her. She could not remember. Perhaps he would tell her of the time she had lost.

That idea cheered her, and she went out into the house. He was still asleep, but the things he had brought were laid out for her to find. More clothing for her, sacks of books and leather-bound scores containing sheaves of music. After she took her clothing into her room and stacked it on her bed, she sat down on the floor and sorted through the music, marveling at its complexity. Had he written it? It seemed so. The scores were each signed with the same flowing script, bearing the single name "Erik." Now she had a name for him. His handwriting was beautiful, though not as painstakingly neat as the musical notation he had lovingly drawn on the staves.

The loose tie of a sack yielded to her eager fingers, and Christine gasped, sitting back on her heels. Gold and silver coins, loose gemstones, lavish jewelry. Riches such as she had never imagined. How in the world had he managed to accumulate so much wealth? She glanced at the door to his room with new respect, retying the sack and setting it back with its contents untouched. She would not like for him to think that she had touched those valuable things without his permission, for fear he would believe she might be tempted to steal some of them.

She stood, brushing at her dress and taking a quick step back from the heap of his possessions which lay before her.

"All that you see is yours," his voice came quietly from behind her, startling her. She gasped and whirled to see him, her hand rising to her breast protectively.

"What?"

"I mean these things which I have brought," he stepped into the room, gesturing. "Some of it is your own, much of it is mine, but what is mine is also yours, to use as you wish." Gravely he stepped forward, loosening the top of the sack of jewels she had opened and tilting it forward to release its glowing deluge of beauty onto the dingy carpet of knotted rags.

He knelt, his hand brushing casually through the glittering mound till he settled on a sparkling gold necklace of delicate links with a diamond pendant in the shape of a teardrop. It was threaded through a simple gold ring. Hesitating for a moment, he removed the ring and put it into his pocket, then approached her, holding aloft the necklace.

Christine let him move behind her to slip the cool, fine chain beneath her hair, his graceful fingers tickling against her neck as he fastened it. A shiver ran through her which was not entirely due to the touch of cold metal on her skin, reminding her of the sensation she had known yesterday, when she thought he meant to kiss her.

"Thank you," she whispered, trembling under the slight pressure of his fingertips. She watched as he knelt to scoop the pile of sparkling wealth back into the canvas sack. His generosity was unprecedented in her experience, certainly not what she would expect from a stranger. But then again, she would hardly expect a stranger to come into her room the same night of her terrible accident, then lead her from the house in which she was staying and bring her away with him to stay in an isolated cottage.

"If Raoul de Chagny was my husband," she heard herself whisper, "then who were you to me?" Her eyes were wide and innocent, but they held him, compelling an answer, demanding honesty in her own timid way.

"I am Erik," he murmured in answer, as though that should be all the explanation she required. "I have been your teacher," he continued, when her clear gaze still did not release him.

She nodded, satisfied that he spoke truly, at least in as much as he said. "Do Madame Giry, or any of my other friends, know where I am?"

Erik sighed, turning away slightly to gather in the final coins. "They do not." He retied the sack deftly.

The phrase hung between them, the magnitude of his audacity trembling in the air. She paused, trying to select her next question. Why have you stolen me away, why do you hide your face, what do you plan to do with me, where is this place you have brought me? But the still wariness of his face silenced her: a quiet entreaty, an earnest hope that she would not ask him any more questions of that nature. And perhaps he knew best, but that did not comfort her. She felt an almost frantic need to know her past, to have her life revealed to her once more. She had lost so much time...

"I wish that you would tell me what I have forgotten," she murmured. "But I see that I cannot ask that of you."

Erik stood, regaining the advantage of height. She noted idly that his ebony jacket was tailored perfectly to fit his broad shoulders, and remained unrumpled despite his long night and recent awakening. "Perhaps one day I will tell you," he spoke, his voice low, with an odd unsteadiness to its usually perfect tone.

Christine met his gaze and faltered back a step, her guard stolen by the welter of passionate emotion which had kindled within his expression. He moved forward slowly and deliberately, his eyes never releasing hers, a yearning reflected in their brooding depths unlike anything she had seen before.

Christine felt the unyielding wooden wall against her back, felt his hands clasp her shoulders as he bent to kiss her.

His mouth covered hers for an unhurried eternity which took her breath. She could not think to struggle, or even to embrace him and respond to his soft touch, which weakened her even as his voice would have done. The warmth of his kiss sent a cool pulse of tingling fire through her, and she was blushing hotly even before he drew away.

Leaning against the wall, she slid to the side, taking a single faltering step and then another, her eyes bound to him, her blush rising higher as she realized her own eyes mirrored his obvious expression of desire.

Ducking her head shyly, she flew into her room. Leaning against the door, holding it closed with the slight weight of her slender body, she fingered the necklace he had so tenderly fastened about her throat.

She had been correct. Her mysterious teacher had been her suitor, perhaps even her lover, during those days which were lost to her now. The thought intrigued her in a seductive way, and she recalled the handsome silhouette of his body to her mind. Such grace... his touch in love would have been gentle and evocative, the sort of caress which would make any woman give herself to him with a will.

The thought that she might have made love with a man made her heart beat quickly. The very idea of it made curiosity race with the blood through her veins, as she wondered and imagined what it might have been like. It was something which she had never seriously considered, and had anticipated only in the vaguest terms.

Still, even though she might once have shared Erik's bed, she was not the same woman he had known then. She had regressed in time. She was just a girl, barely recovered from the untimely death of her father. Just a girl, and his single kiss was the only one which existed in her memory.

But if she belonged to him, then why had she chosen to marry the Vicomte de Chagny? What was Erik hiding, and why? And what... what lay beneath the shell-white porcelain mask?

Her questions, it seemed, must go unanswered. Unless she could find some way to persuade him to answer them...

She shook her head, releasing the idea. She could think of it later, when she was less shaken.

Erik stood where she had left him, his breath coming rather too quickly, his mind and body in turmoil. He'd been mad to give in to the impulse to kiss her. He had frightened her already, sent her fleeing into her room. He'd risked spoiling the precious, delicate trust which had lain between them.

But he had awakened her desire. Without the knowledge of what lay beneath the mask, Christine was free to feel love and desire for him. Her fear was not yet of him. Rather, it was merely the natural shyness of a young girl who had never before been touched with desire. If she had not been so timid--

If she had not been so becomingly shy, she might have gained the answers to all her questions. For if Christine were ever to give herself to him, he would then be powerless to deny her slightest wish, spoken or unspoken. Even if it meant that he must ultimately run the risk of losing her.

He resolved that he must never coerce her or tempt her with that knowledge. There could never be an open declaration that she might so easily gain access to the secrets of her past... such a shameless manipulation would dishonor him and would bring about the doom of any union they might ever have.

But even so, he longed to enter her room and offer her the unspeakable bargain, so that he might be assured of loving her, at least once. Her body for her past: a single night in exchange for the lost years of her life. It would almost be a betrayal to tell her of her misery and sorrow, all at his hand! But perhaps the bargain would not have to be made. Perhaps she might grow to love him, and they could make an entirely new start together.

Time was all he would require. Time alone with her, uninterrupted by the outside world, so that his patience could be rewarded by the lessening of her timidity. His gentleness and caring would be rewarded by her trust. His need of her might be rewarded by her desire for him. Perhaps he would eventually be able to tell her everything, even show her his face, secure in the knowledge of her love.

But for now, he needed to work: hard work, so that he could distract his body from its stubborn demand for her. He went into his room and changed into a rough shirt and workman's trousers which he had purchased in the city. Then he left the house, hoping to find an axe in the adjacent stable, so that he could cut wood for their hearth and cooking fires.

She glanced about the room, deciding again to banish her nervousness with work. This was one thing she hadn't been able to accomplish yesterday. The old furnishings had been dusted, but the wardrobe and dresser contained disintegrating clothes and other personal possessions belonging to the last woman who had occupied this room.

Feeling very much like an intruder, Christine opened the wardrobe. The scent of some perfume had grown stale inside it over the long years. Many of the plain dresses within had grown brittle, and her fingers threatened to break through the thin cloth as she lifted them out. They had belonged to a woman not too much larger than she.

She piled them carefully and left the wardrobe open to air out. Experimentally she removed a dresser drawer and dumped out its contents. The inevitable mice nested among a lady's underthings. Steeling herself, she waited till the tiny rodents fled and he put the contents of the drawer with the dresses and tipped it up on its side to air.

She repeated the process, discovering little more which she could use than a bottle of perfume. The fourth drawer stuck, and she knelt to it, lifting it so that the obstruction would clear the dresser's frame.

As she tilted that final drawer to empty it, her fingers discovered a leather-bound book. It had been carefully concealed beneath the drawer, but humidity had swollen it. It must have been the culprit which made the drawer so difficult to open.

Christine took the book, turning it in her hands. Its cover was plain, unmarked leather, slightly moldy. She opened it, finding pages headed with dates and filled with neat paragraphs of copperplate script. A diary.

Fascinated, she sat among the untidy mounds of discarded clothes, the journal open on her knees.

It began as if in the middle, indicating the existence of an earlier volume. Within moments the words held her enthralled, offering information which she clung to as though it were a lifeline. The writings were cautiously phrased, secretive, and even evasive, yet they must be an indirect chronicle of her dark teacher's earliest days, and she could not resist them.

"I believe our removal was in the best interest. We have been here only two days, but already Erik begins to adjust. I missed him today, and endured extreme agitation. He returned near dusk. My fears were proven vain, but he would not tell me where he had gone. I cannot begin to impress upon him the importance of discretion.

We are quite secluded here, nonetheless. I only pray it will remain so."

She frowned, her lips moving as she read the cryptic words. A sharp sound interrupted her, making her flinch instinctively, with the keen guilt of a child caught in a forbidden act. Rising, she gazed through the window. He was not visible, but the sound came again and again, and she recognized it to be the sound of an axe.

She returned to her reading with a subconscious smile. Her mind idly noted that the concept of such crude physical labor did not quite conform with the studied elegance of his bearing or the harmonious grace and beauty of his hands. Nevertheless, he was strong, and he was determined to provide the necessities they required, in spite of the indignity of a gentleman being forced to perform a common laborer's tasks.

As she progressed into the diary, her expression grew clouded, and she frequently paused to turn backward, seeking clues to help her interpret what she read.

Erik's mother had hinted at some disastrous, tragic fate which overshadowed both her and her son's lives. Perhaps they had been pursued. She certainly seemed anxious to keep away from anyone. And Erik must have been a spirited child, to give her so much difficulty. Every page concerned itself with some childlike misdemeanor... in one entry he disappeared for hours, in another he shattered all the mirrors in the house, apparently with his bare fists. One day he wrote music and drew plans for buildings in ink on white linen sheets and tablecloths, the next he sulked in his room and would not be comforted. Christine tried to smile at those accounts of his childhood disobedience, but found herself unable to sustain the expression of tolerant amusement. The amusement one should feel when reading of childish pranks did not suit itself to the solemn tone of these writings.

After several pages, she closed the book with a frown and eased it back into its hiding place, replacing the empty drawer in its slot. The woman who had written the diary was extremely paranoid. Afraid of her own shadow, always seeming in fear of some unimaginable disaster which was just around the corner. She must have been very difficult to live with. Perhaps that was why Erik was so reserved.

Christine opened the windows, then gathered the old, unusable clothing up in a sheet and carried it outside. When the room had aired, she would store her own things within the wardrobe and dresser. She made a mental note to ask Erik to get her a cat to help get rid of the hundreds of house mice.

Time passed, and Christine remained with Erik, her questions largely unanswered. The days lengthened and merged into a progression of increasingly absorbing music lessons, light housekeeping which he shared with her, and quiet peaceful evenings of companionship. Looking across the room to him each evening, Christine could hardly realize that there had been a time when she did not look up and find him there, buried intently in the pages of a leather-bound book, stirring the fire, noting down music with deliberate haste, or lightly drawing a bow across the strings of his polished violin, his eyes half-closed and his expression quite absent, the strings producing a sound nearly as sweet and eerily haunting as his own voice.

The only discordant emotions were her uncertain past and the relentless pessimism of his mother's diary. She read a few more pages every morning, always choosing a moment while he was completing some outside chore. No further clues arose, though his mother's writing grew less coherent. She told in hysterical terms of the spellbinding power of his voice, which Christine had experienced firsthand. She recounted his skill with music, architectural drawings, and animals. She wrote of being unable to control him, using increasingly frantic descriptions which made Christine's frown deepen. She almost felt fear when she leafed through those yellowed, crackling pages. But then he would return, and when he gazed on her, when he sang to her, there could be no fear in the face of his obvious love.

After that second morning, he had never again offered to touch or kiss her. Christine considered it often, fidgeting in the evening or running her fingers along a clean shelf as she prepared the midday meal. She still wore the diamond pendant he had fastened about her throat. She never removed it, not even when she bathed in the privacy of her room.

Summer at last began to blossom, and Christine spent many of her daylight hours rambling through the meadow or sitting in the yard. Lovely, sweet-scented wisteria blossoms tumbled from the three ancient oaks. The spring daffodils and lilacs had faded, giving way to buttercups and daisies. She explored the edges of the surrounding woods, bathed her feet in the small stream which wandered through the meadow, drew water from the well to drink and to smooth onto her throat and wrists to cool herself off.

In contrast, Erik seemed to prefer to remain inside when he did not have work to do that required him to be out of doors. Often during her idle walks she would turn and see him standing in the doorway or a window, watching her. If he noticed she had seen him, he would nod politely, turn, and go inside. But she would soon catch him watching again, from the corner of her eye. It gave her a feeling of warmth and security to know he looked after her.

He liked to call her with the violin, standing just within the shadow of the threshold and playing so softly she could barely hear him. She would come and sit on the edge of the porch, dangling her feet in the air, listening till he finished. He would come out and raise her to her feet, then lead her inside.

Usually he would then begin to sing, drawing her into a timeless bliss of music lesson that might last for minutes or for hours as his mood varied. Even during the intense communion of their song together, he did not venture to kiss her again. He could control her with the subtlest gestures, the lightest touches, draw her so close to him that she could almost feel the warmth of his breath... but then he would turn her aside.

It maddened her at times to think of it. She made resolves and then broke them. She promised herself that she would touch his hand, but then became too timid as soon as she looked upon the sheer grace of his powerful body. She allowed herself to be discouraged by the aloof dignity of his posture. If she entertained the idea that she might contrive to brush her breast against his arm in passing, she would become fainthearted at the last instant, passing by without contact, her eyes shyly downcast.

She paused from her meditation, idly breaking a twig of elm. Glancing up, she saw that the glorious, billowing afternoon clouds had begun to grow grey and gather together. A breeze rose to sweep through the grass of the meadow, bending it in shimmering waves. As she listened, the birds grew quiet. A rumbling growl echoed from the horizon.

Christine half-smiled, indulging herself in the childish delight of anticipating the coming thunderstorm. Such a delicious tingle of excitement, rising from her toes through her hair. The trees began to rustle, showing her the silvery underside of their delicate leaves.

Boldly she stepped away from the eaves of the wood, gazing up and watching the clouds bunch and darken. The sun's fitful gleams died away and she stood still, letting the tide of cool air sweep over her, blowing her hair away. She almost felt as if she could take flight across the meadow like the scattered leaves which blew past her.

She lingered, listening to the mutter of thunder approaching her, her body quivering with an electric tingle now as the clouds grew sinister, seeming to lower toward her. There was an odd, wavering quality of light, a prickling electricity in the air. Any moment now... the darkening sky, the buffeting wind... a single raindrop...

With a marvelous thrill of sudden panic, she flung herself away from the lowering, billowing sky, racing for the house like a bird, one with the wind. She could hear it rushing through the whispering grasses, pursuing her, with the patter of rain, the crackle of thunder, and her own rapid gasps of breath. She leaped across the small stream, racing the thunderstorm, racing the wind, fleeter than the rain.

She blew across the yard, feeling the rain begin to sting her arms and shoulders, the crown of her hair. She flew up onto the porch and through the door, into the darkness of the house, her lips opening to laugh as she whirled to close the door.

The spectacle before her stole her half-uneasy humor. She stood in total darkness, the only light coming through the open door. Erik moved to stand between her and the portal, an ink-black silhouette against the heavy purpling cloud billows, giving her a sudden sense of impending peril which matched the sky. For a moment he gazed out into the approaching chaos, the black cloak he wore taking flight in the oppressive storm wind. Lightning crackled against the dusky sky before him, and Christine gasped. Her earlier delight in the fear of the storm altered into something headier, something even more tantalizing, more terrifying.

The thunder caught her, masking her low moan. He turned in a swirl of cloak, approaching her slowly. Christine froze, paralyzed as she had been beneath the threatening sky. He was coming for her at last, his power once again the irresistible magnetic force that had spirited her away from her room in the Chagny estate.

She could not move, watching the play of the lightning behind him, listening to the rumbling sky, the thunder bouncing back and forth between the land and the heavens. Again the lightning, and again. He reached out to her, the motion stretching time, caught in the brilliant blue flicker of a flash which lanced into the woods behind him.

He caught her in his arms as the wind slammed the door behind him, and she realized with dim surprise that she was seeking his mouth greedily, her body flattening against his with the desperation of final release. She clung to him as he lifted her and brought her into her bedroom. As the rain roared down on the roof, he placed her tenderly onto the mattress.

Christine stared at him with disbelief as he bowed ever so slightly to her and left her alone in the room, listening to the thunder crash and the rain drum against the roof and windowpanes.

She woke quietly after a long, heavy sleep, pushing away a vague sense of disappointment, turning her perspiring cheek to a cool spot on the pillow. Today would be the first truly hot day of the summer season. Sweat beaded on her body beneath the coverlet and dampened the sheets around her. She shrugged the blankets away instinctively, stretching with a sigh.

She glanced lazily out of her window. The fresh, rainwashed morning sunlight filtering through the leaves of oaks and dancing on the meadow.

She rose and dressed in a light sleeveless frock which was actually more like a nightgown. She did not want to think of wearing a heavy, long-sleeved dress in this heat.

She was glad of her choice as she prepared breakfast. The cookfire heated the small house almost unbearably. He had cut wood yesterday, enough to last for summer cooking. He must be very tired. He rarely slept so late in the mornings. Finishing the breakfast and setting out dishes, she straightened her hair and tentatively ventured into his room to wake him.

He lay sleeping, his face turned away from a shaft of sunlight. The brilliant summer sun made motes of dust seem to dance in the air, and it illuminated his mask, which remained firmly in place over the right half of his face, as always. It was tied with a ribbon, cleverly affixed so that it would not come off accidentally. However, the slightest tug on the loose end of that ribbon would undo the knot, leaving his mask free to be lifted away, to let her see what lay beneath.

Possessed by irresistible temptation, she advanced very slowly. Her heart had begun to pound: a guilty, excited thumping, so insistent in her chest that it was almost audible. Now she would see what he had hidden from her. She shouldn't. She had promised, but she was so curious... it burned like a flame in her mind, that curiosity. The white porcelain shone in the sunlight, its contours smooth and almost innocent, only slightly asymmetrical with his left profile. It was impossible to keep her promise. She must see him, she had to know what lay beneath that beautiful milk- white mask. She could always claim it had come loose while he slept.

She reached out experimentally, considering how best to accomplish her purpose. Pandora. The name came to mind, and it seemed she heard it spoken in his voice: that lovely, caressing tone distorted and horrible with rage. Pandora, loosing the evils of the world so carelessly, all for the sake of curiosity. She hesitated, a flicker of doubt in her heart. But surely this could not have such dire consequences. It was only his face, after all, the face of the man she had almost decided to love. It could not be so terrible.

She could wait no longer. With eager, trembling fingers, she loosened the knot, and very gingerly settled her fingertips beneath the smooth, contoured edge. The porcelain felt very cool and surprisingly light as she lifted it from his face.

Christine blinked, freezing as she bent over him, her fingers going numb; her mind going numb; her heart going numb. Her left hand clutched at her chest, vainly struggling to silence her pounding heart. Her fingers caught in the delicate chain of her pendant, bursting the clasp. The chain slithered down to puddle on his mattress, unnoticed. She blinked again, hoping the horror would fade, hoping the distorted image beneath her eyes would disperse and re-coalesce into normality.

It did not.

Whimpering low in her throat, she dropped the mask and crept backward with tiny, tottering steps, unable to tear her eyes from the unbelievable multitude of hideous scars. Her feet scraped harshly against the wooden floorboards as they slid backward one by one, eventually tangling in a throw rug.

The near-stumble broke the spell of her revulsion, and she groped down wildly, straightening the rug, then broke and fled on bare feet, stumbling through the house and into the stable.

That face. She had seen that face before. She had seen it before. That, even more than the mutilation of his features, was what dominated her mind and pushed her into a frenzy of blind, unreasoning terror.

Frantically she threw a saddle over Moll's back, jerking wildly at the many buckles and straps and scrabbling frantically to find a bridle. She had to go. She had to leave. She must get out of here before he woke up and pursued her. So terrible to think of that horrible, demonically familiar face twisting in anger as he came after her!

She struggled to climb into the haphazardly fastened saddle, and gathered up the reins in shaking hands. Just imagine the monster's secret triumph as he loomed over her and she lifted her mouth to his, as she innocently accepted his kisses, not knowing the truth behind the mask... that face! A vivid image of it struck her, a memory rising from blankness, reinforcing her sense of impending catastrophe. He had laughed as he held a twisted rope, its noose tight around the neck of the blond man she remembered seeing only when he had been fished out from the shattered carriage... the Vicomte de Chagny, the man who had been her lawful husband.

That terrible, twisted face, and worse, the twisted soul it covered! The secret anguish of a mother's diary revealed. Even as she finally understood the secrets of that terrible chronicle, she began to recall the image of his face looming behind other men, suspended by the same noose which had held Raoul de Chagny. She could hear his laughter ringing in the background: she could hear herself scream, a tearing, hideous, painful sound which ripped at her throat, as she stared directly into that face, set in a death-rictus of rage. She remembered the awful, unshakable certainty that she was, quite simply, going to die at any moment by the savage hands of the man who wore that face.

With a whimper, unable to care any longer for stealth, Christine thrashed savagely at Moll's sides with her bare heels, leaning low over her white mane, urging her out of the stable in a gallop.

Sobs catching in her throat, she kicked Moll again as they passed under the eaves of the forest, along the faint track which she hoped would lead her to a town before he wakened to pursue her. Moll could run faster than Red, but the stallion could run farther and last longer. She'd been a fool not to bring him, too, a fool to leave him where the monster could use him to catch up to her. Too late to do anything about that now.

Run.

A galloping horse, the beat of hooves muffled by tall grass and damp soil. The sound penetrated Erik's sleeping brain, and he shifted to break the dream. The hoofbeats faded, and he lay quietly, sifting slowly out of sleep.

After a time he turned over, absently stretching his arm across the pillows. No sense of anything amiss penetrated his hazy thoughts. He felt too weary to do anything but lie here lazily, enjoying the comfort of lying abed after the sun had risen. His arms were stiff and sore from his labor of the previous day, but he was happy.

He stretched, dimly realizing that he had really heard hoofbeats. Frowning, shaking away the last remnants of sleep, he lifted himself to his elbows, glancing about. She was not within the house. The absolute, brooding silence made him quite certain of that fact. Why had she gone out, why had she taken the horse?

He sat up, rubbing at his sleep-heavy eyes, which quite unexpectedly landed on two familiar objects.

He sat absolutely still, his hands still at his temples, and he stared numbly at the untied ribbon and inside surface of his mask, which lay on the coverlet beside him. It lay next to a small pool of sparkling gold, the glint of sunlight on the diamond almost blinding him. His face was exposed, and her necklace lay broken and sparkling on the sheet next to his mask.

He picked up the chain automatically, staring at its burst clasp without really seeing it. She had broken her promise, removed his mask while he lay sleeping, laid his terrible secret bare. She had ripped off his gift in her horror, and flung it away, a symbolic gesture if ever one had been made. Now she was gone.

She had received the answers to her questions before he could give them, ironically, just as he had been given the chance to think he might safely offer them.

Desperately he threw himself from the bed, running to the kitchen, flinging open the door to the stable. Red stood there, alone, and saddle blankets and other tack lay scattered carelessly on the floor where she had strewn them as she rummaged frantically through the equipment, seeking what she needed to saddle Moll.

She broke her promise, a deeply buried portion of his mind wailed, anguished with betrayal and loss. But he could not allow himself to think of that now, could not allow the crippling misery to overcome him and prevent him from acting swiftly.

He hurried back into the house, half his mind occupied with quickly trying to dress himself, half trying to gauge the time which had elapsed since he heard the ringing of hooves in his sleep. A long time. Perhaps as much as a quarter of an hour, certainly enough of a head start that she would arrive in the nearest town almost before he could saddle Red and begin to ride after her.

But perhaps... just perhaps... Moll could have gone lame, or some other accident might have delayed Christine. He had to believe in that chance. He rode after her.

As the forest began to thin, Christine reined the horse in to a walk. She had no clothes other than her thin house dress. It would be embarrassing to encounter other people while dressed in this manner.

She rode from beneath the fringe of the trees and found herself gazing down a long, sloping green. There was indeed a village nearby, standing reassuringly against the horizon. To the right of the road Christine followed, perhaps a half-mile from where the track came out of the woods, sat a large, ancient stone building. Christine could make out black- and white-clad figures moving purposefully about in the yard. Graceful, stately figures, women wearing wimples and habits.

Her hopes leaped high at the sight. It was an abbey, a convent filled with holy sisters. Such places took in stray women in trouble, as long as they were honest in their need for shelter. It was the perfect place to go, for it was the only one into which he could not conceivably follow her. She turned Moll toward the abbey, nudging the tiring mare into a run, formulating her request for shelter as they went.

Erik approached the edge of the woods shortly afterward, somehow sensing that he was close behind Christine. If only he had been five minutes faster... he reined Red swiftly as he topped the rise, gazing into the rolling, grassy downs.

The white mare, carrying its precious cargo, was still in view. Christine was within a hundred yards or so of an old stone abbey, riding hard on a straight line for the gate. The nuns who lived within had stopped in their duties and were turning toward the wall to see who approached. Of course, she intended to ask them for shelter.

If she had decided to go on into town, he still could have caught up with her. Somewhere out on the downs, where the ground grew soggy. She would have had to slow to pick her way at a walk, and he would have caught up while she could not flee easily. But the convent...

At least he knew where she was.

He sat and watched as she was quickly admitted inside the stone walls and wrought-iron gates. She disappeared into the abbey, Moll being led away to a stable.

His shoulders slumped dispiritedly. He would have to go back to the cottage now and take his belongings away. Once she told her story, his childhood home would be neither safe nor secret. It would become just like his hidden domain within the Opera's walls: public knowledge. Its every niche and corner would be pried into and examined, with the public searching his secrets out diligently. And afterward, curiosity-seekers would come about, however infrequently, at odd hours.

If only she could find at least enough kindness within her to spare his home, he thought bitterly. To leave him the place where he had once known happiness with her.

He turned and walked the stallion listlessly back through the forest. He would take his music, his money, the violin, and their things back to Paris. Then he would return to watch the cabin in the woods. If no-one had come to search it within a fortnight, he would assume that nobody would; at least not in force, not in a group so large he could not deal with them all.

Grimly his hand went to the inner pocket of his cloak, where the Punjab lasso rested. It had lain unused since it encircled Raoul de Chagny's neck, though he customarily carried it against the possibility of attack. Now, it seemed, he might find a use for it once more.

He brought his hand out and stared at the lasso with dull revulsion, his spirits sinking still further. Had he truly hoped to escape the role of vengeful executioner? Clearly his hopes had proven foolish. Bitterly he stuffed the hateful instrument of death away into a deep pocket. Erik had never profited from kindness. He reminded himself of that, hardening his heart remorselessly. He would do what he had to, just as he always had.

Sitting erect and determined on his horse, Erik rode back through the woods toward his empty home.

Christine was admitted hastily to the placid conclave of women and shown to a barren cell with stone walls. Modest clothing awaited on the low cot. She found herself relieved to be hidden from the eyes of the nuns. They had stared at her with varying degrees of sympathy and disapproval. No doubt her story would filter out soon: kidnapped and held forcibly, she had managed to steal a horse and ride away. The inevitable rumors would circulate: had she been violated by her captor? In the stifling boredom of a convent, tongues would surely wag.

She shifted uncomfortably as she tried out her lumpy mattress. She had withheld the knowledge of her amnesia, asking only that Madame Estelle Giry be contacted at the conservatoire in Paris. She had spoken of the Vicomte de Chagny in only the vaguest terms, referring to him as her dead husband.

She had not disclosed a great deal about the nature of her captor, either. By pretending faintness, she had evaded questions regarding where she had been kept. These thin spots in her story were bound to draw more insistent attention soon.

She felt quite reticent about revealing her secrets. In a bizarre way, she felt almost protective of Erik. After all, there had been beauty and peace in spending time with her strange, tragic teacher. In spite of his helpless ugliness and her terrified, blurred memories of death, her heart forbade her to make her betrayal of him complete.

She sat staring into the still flame of her candle, realizing that she'd held her tongue for other reasons, as well. Chiefly because he had never lied to her. He had never coerced her into doing anything against her will. She had accompanied him willingly, even though she was enticed by his sinfully beautiful voice and his feline grace.

Blushing, she forced herself to admit that she'd even been tempted to offer herself to him, drawn by his tantalizing combination of aloof reserve and quiet attentiveness. Her feelings had been finally been unveiled during the wild abandon of the thunderstorm, so akin to him in its complete, untamable ferocity and indescribable dark... beauty.

She was now able to sit back in relative security and consider her actions with calm. Her flight had been the whim of an instant. Her terror had been piqued not so much by the shock of his face as by the certainty that she had seen it before, in conjunction with death.

There was so much to consider, so much for her to reconcile! Of course she had seen that face before. She'd always been aware that she'd known him before, during the portion of her life which was now lost to her. Seeing his face, she had solved the mystery of why she'd married the Vicomte de Chagny instead of Erik. Because of that face... and because of the noose in her memory, the noose and the hanged men... the fear of his murderous anger...

Now more than ever she knew it was imperative to discover the secrets of her past.

Whatever they were, it must have hurt him dreadfully to wake and find her gone. How must something like that feel to one such as he? She had treated him unfairly. She should have given him a chance to explain. She should have demanded answers to her questions. Perhaps he would have provided them at last, if she had been brave enough to stay.

But in spite of her present cool reasoning, the vague, half- formed memories of Erik still disturbed her. Those images of violent death! They had come as a complete surprise. In her limited memory, Erik had never shown her the slightest anger. And yet, those dead men in her mind: they were real, and they had died at his hand. She was certain of it, as certain as she was that she had nearly joined them.

Finally, there was the sound of his voice that she recalled: that sweet velvet tone harshened and made nearly unrecognizable by rage. His voice, cursing her, naming her Pandora. Pandora, who had given eternal sorrow to an innocent world with a woman's curiosity, just as Christine had done this morning, just as she must have done before.

She knew one thing as she sat there feeling the harsh, coarse- woven linen nightgown against her skin. She could not risk a return to him until she knew her entire past, whether it came by hearsay or by rediscovering it in her own mind.

Erik sat quietly in the empty front room of the cottage, watching night fall outside the windows, which she had cleaned with her own hands. He held a small glass in his hand, half-full of strong drink. His thoughts plowed a relentless circle through his brain, remorselessly dragging him with them over and over again.

She might return, or she might not. In either case, he hardly thought a woman of her temperament would be content to lurk in a convent forever. Self-discipline had never been Christine's strongest quality, as he knew to his sorrow.

She would doubtless contact Madame Giry shortly, in order to learn her history. Could he dare to hope that she would return to the Opera, or even to Paris?

He bit back another swallow of the harsh whiskey. He usually avoided potent spirits, but he had found this bottle hidden away, and poured himself a small measure, hoping to dull his agitation. It had not worked. He was still distrait.

He glanced toward the bedroom doors, almost obscured in shadow. Only last night... only last night. Little more than twenty-four hours ago he had prepared to go out and fetch her before the thunderstorm could strike. Drawing on his cloak, he had glanced up to see her flying across the meadow toward him, as beautiful as an angel with her pale dress trailing behind her: a long haired angel fallen from grace and fleeing the destructive wrath of the blackening sky, the tall grass bent in her wake, the patter of raindrops beginning against the oaken shingles, the sudden fresh scent of her as she flew into the house, the heightened, tingling menace of the storm... her face exquisitely pale in the dim light which came through the door, lightning serving only to brighten the sparkle in her eyes. That expression of half-terror, half-wonder, and complete desire as he approached her... he could do nothing other than give in to the overwhelming desire to kiss her. As she yielded herself fully to that single kiss, he had known that he could take her, at last.

But he had been strong. He'd resisted the overwhelming temptation. Half in disbelief at his good fortune, half in indecision born of an unexpected timidity, he had decided to wait. he had held back, rather than to risk her rejection. He had foregone his only chance to know her love.

Damn her curiosity! His fist clenched around the glass, now empty. Surging to his feet, he hurled it into the stone fireplace, where it shattered.

Forcing himself to rein in his temper, he rose deliberately and paced to her room too slowly, staring at the still-rumpled bedsheets in the dim glow of his candle. A sudden insane urge possessed him, whispering that he should touch the fragile flame to those sheets, and torch the entire house.

He came to himself drenched in sweat, his hand trembling. The candle slowly dripped clear liquid wax onto the bedsheet. He had unknowingly stepped forward and halted only inches from accomplishing his purpose.

Transferring the candle into his right hand, he reached and took her pillow instead, holding it to his face. It was still kissed with the faint scent of her perfume.

He set the pillow down as carefully as if it had been Christine herself. Quietly he blew out his candle and left the house before a moment of madness led him to do something he would regret.

Little more than a week later, Christine stood in the foyer of the Opera, timidly holding Meg Giry's hand. Such a splendid building! It was impossible to imagine that she had performed here. And in leading roles, as though she were a true prima donna, and not a timid child from the country! Faced with the grandeur of the Opera Populaire, she could not help but doubt what she had been told. Still, in light of her past triumphs, she was to re-enter the conservatoire, and this tour was Meg's thoughtful prelude to her admission.

Christine sighed. Not everything had been so pleasant. Phillipe de Chagny was quite highly offended by her leaving his estate in the middle of the same night his brother, her new husband, died. He had refused to offer her a penny of his family's money. She would have to support herself. This would not be easy since she had forgotten all her trade skills, both dancing and singing. The few renewed lessons Erik had given her were not yet enough to restore her former prowess as a diva.

Meg was chattering gaily, leading her through the lush anterooms, past marble columns and below gilded ceilings. People stared at them curiously. Christine could not help but notice that a number of them were avoiding her. Some sketched a sign of warding against the evil eye, hurrying away in apparent fear.

Her stomach sank. She knew what that had to mean. Meg and Estelle Giry had sat her down and gently, carefully told her what they knew of her past. In kind, soft words they had painted a picture of glory and horror, triumph and despair. They had tried to edit the story, choosing the most tactful terms, kind, effacing phrases, but still the tale froze her blood with shock and misery. Now, these people feared her; they feared the Phantom's curse, which hung over her like a shroud.

Nervously, Christine's hand smoothed across her frock. Those elaborate, curving stairs were the ones the Red Death trod, bringing the score of his Don Juan Triumphant. In the auditorium, a huge beaded chandelier loomed above, it was impossible to imagine how terrible the spectacle of its fall had been.

The stage, and backstage, where Buquet and Piangi had hung... echoes of the few memories which had truly resurfaced: his terrible distorted face, his echoing laughter, and the two men grotesquely suspended by the neck, spinning slowly before they were cut down. As Raoul de Chagny had almost been. How had he escaped their fate? How had she done the same? Nobody knew.

She didn't want to go to her dressing room, she dreaded the inevitable descent into the cellars. She did not want Meg to show her his house, where nobody went now. What if he had returned, to watch over her unseen?

She shivered with sudden cold, glancing about the ornate lobby in which they now stood. He had been a ghost by reputation. He might easily contrive to spy on her without attracting notice. Meg had spoken of his ability to appear and disappear at will, his knowledge of all which went on within his domain, his effortless thefts, the way his disembodied voice and laughter could echo from every corner of a huge room, the way he would reward or punish those who pleased or displeased him. Poor murdered Buquet... his sole crime, it seemed, had been idle chatter, a description of the monster's face. He had been overheard, and within a week he died. Meg herself had been promoted to the leader of a row as a result of his unpredictable whim. But for every benevolent act, there were several harmful ones.

Evidently his devious talents and his quick temper had remained hidden from her as efficiently as his face. Christine shuddered, drawing her cloak closer about her shoulders.

"I think he was in love with you," Meg confided in a whisper, part of a continuous stream of nervous chatter. She held Christine's hand, drawing her into the corridors where the performers were housed. "You could do nothing wrong. He arranged roles for you, wrote notes to the managers demanding that you be cast ahead of Carlotta. When they refused, he made her croak like a toad.. Before all of Paris..." Meg's enthusiasm, and her voice, trailed away in the face of Christine's lack of response.

Christine shook her head, her face drawn and white. She watched Meg unlock the door of her own dressing room. "Perhaps he was not so bad as it seemed," she faltered. "He treated me very well, Meg." She chose a high stool to sit and rest her sore feet, thinking of the time she and the Phantom had shared in their peaceful cottage. He had often sat quietly before the fire in a wooden rocking chair, reading. He had played the violin for her so exquisitely. He had humbled himself to do a common laborer's work in order to ensure her comfort.

He had manipulated her, used her state of confusion to steal her away from the Chagny villa.

But he had left Moll in the stable, an opportunity for her to ride away any time she wanted. When she had done so, he had not come to claim her and force her to come back to him. He had not, as far as she knew, come after her at all. That seemed hardly characteristic of the vicious Opera Ghost... but perfectly consistent with the almost timid consideration of her mysterious teacher's more recent behavior. If not for the undeniable proof of that terrible, twisted face, she would not have believed the descriptions she was given to be of the man she knew.

Christine shook her head, futilely trying to make a coherent picture of all she remembered and all she had been told.

"Perhaps he's changed," she whispered. "Or maybe you misunderstood him."

"But Piangi, and Buquet," Meg responded, just as softly.

Christine shook her head, frustrated. "I don't know," she balled her tiny fists in her lap. "Are you sure he killed them?"

"There can be no doubt." Meg sighed. She had answered this same question, and her mother had answered it, at least a dozen times. "He nearly killed you, Christine," she said at last, flatly. "And you remember yourself that he very nearly killed Raoul, as well." She paused, her eyes sympathetic. "You were terrified of him. Even before you truly came to know him, you told me he frightened you."

Christine nodded wearily, conceding the point.

Meg watched her friend, feeling doubt tug at her. Christine, in spite of her reluctance to accept the true history of Erik, had nevertheless been moved to flee from him. She should not require such insistent reminders of his instability.

Christine was staring about the room, her eyes vague, her expression distracted and sad. She returned her eyes to Meg, biting her lip. She glanced behind herself with instinctive nervousness. "I think I should go."

Meg had to agree, but they were not quite finished.

"Before you do, I think we should finish our--" she murmured, leading Christine through the door, which closed behind them.

Erik struck his fist against his thigh with frustration, observing through a small peep-hole as Christine and Meg left together. He had returned to the Opera from his cottage, planning to spend only a few hours. He could not be certain that the managers of the Opera would have abandoned their search for him as useless.

But he had let himself linger with his memories, and hours stretched into days. Of course, he had hoped she would eventually come here, though he refused to admit that was his true reason for staying. But inevitably he had finally spied her walking with Meg Giry, the two of them taking a leisurely tour through his domain.

He sat back on his heels, regretting that Christine had chosen to take Meg into her confidence. The Giry girl was hardly wise enough to offer counsel on Christine's complex relationship with Erik. She was unwilling to consider the faintest possibility that he could be anything other than a vicious killer.

She was already persuading Christine to believe her biased views, though Christine still protested weakly that Erik had treated her well. Meg was an ignorant child, mired firmly in the childish pursuit of exaggeration, unable to see that wickedness had any degree other than absolute evil.

He shook his head, slipping away through one of the innumerable passages he had fashioned within the walls of the Opera. He could watch them leave. But what was the point? Christine regretted her original decision to follow him, that much was clear.

Bitterly he reproached himself for lingering until he had seen her. As he drowned himself in black thoughts he made his way through the cellars, returning to his home by force of habit.

Approaching a hidden side door, he realized that he was not alone. He froze, discerning two sets of footsteps. His jaw clenched with annoyance. That hare-brained Giry would have to drag Christine down here, to see his abandoned home. She probably hoped it would help restore her friend's natural memories.

He bit his lip, trying to decide what to do. Once the thought of doing violence to Meg for her ill-considered opinions would have appealed to him. Now his only desire was to go forth and see Christine again, in spite of the pain it brought him.

He drew a deep breath, his hand sliding into the pocket of his trousers. He touched cool metal and drew out the necklace he had given Christine. Its clasp had broken, or more likely she had torn it away when she witnessed his unmasked ugliness. In either case, she had left it behind.

Gliding into his home, he evaded their eyes. Moving as silently as a shadow, he opened the hidden portal which led to Christine's room, ensuring that they would find it. Not pausing to consider the results of his actions, he let the necklace slide from his palm onto the surface of Christine's vanity table, the golden chain puddling together, the diamond teardrop glinting even in the faint light which came through the opening in the wall.

He waited unseen behind a curtain as they entered the room and then noiselessly slipped out, allowing himself only the briefest glimpse of Christine.

Poor young maiden,

For the thrill on your tongue of stolen sweets

You will have to pay the bill

Tangled in the winding sheets...

\--Erik, Don Juan Triumphant

Christine let Meg tug her about halfheartedly, devoutly yearning to leave this huge, gloomy building. These cellars were bound to be full of rats and vermin... but as they entered Erik's home, she knew Meg had been right to bring her here. The Oriental spendor of the ruined furnishings of the hidden rooms astonished her, tugging at her heart. No wonder her Erik had seemed so out of place in the rustic cottage, chopping wood!

This place was suited perfectly to his dark splendor, its every fixture in perfect accord with his subtle, melancholy grace. This was what had been missing all along, this adjunct to his rich, dark glory. She let her fingers trail over polished ebony statues and smoothly carved wooden surfaces, her heart thumping with a strange heaviness.

His presence was almost tangible here: every breath of this air felt like silver, so filled was it with the sense of him. She found herself trembling uncontrollably with fear... the same thunderous, seductive, darkly gorgeous fear which had possessed her the evening of the storm, when she had nearly--

"Meg, let's go," her lips formed the words but her voice would not work. Meg was speaking again, her voice high and excited.

"I didn't see that room when I was here before," she tugged at Christine's arm. "Let's look in there."

Christine's hair rose in a chill along her spine and her forearms as they entered the dark chamber. This was my room, she thought. It had to be.

She stepped forward, lifting her candle and passing Meg, who was marvelling at the bed, carved as it was in the shape of a boat. The glint of gold on lustrous cherry wood caught her eye and drew her to a dainty vanity table on the opposite wall.

A bit of jewelry, one which she had thought lost-- her hand trembled, closing on the pendant Erik had given her, which she had missed after her mad flight from him.

It was still warm.

Christine swayed, hearing a faint, low moan. It came from her own throat, she realized as Meg whirled in terror.

"He's here," Christine whispered. "He's here."

"What?" Meg's self-assured manner had vanished instantly. "How do you know?" she hissed.

"It's still warm," Christine gasped faintly, opening her palm, holding it out toward Meg blindly.

"Mon Dieu," Meg whirled wildly, glancing about, her eyes wild. "I was a fool to bring us here alone!"

"He won't hurt you," Christine heard herself claim, though she too was in a state of terror, her eyes searching everywhere for him. Even now his eyes would be on her. "You're under my protection," she spoke louder. "Nobody will hurt you, do you hear? You're with me, nobody's going to do anything to you!"

She realized she had almost shouting, her voice quivering with terror of her own. She stepped toward Meg hastily, her hip bumping against the vanity.

A bottle fell to the stone floor and shattered, making Christine flinch. With a low, terrified cry, Meg swayed and crumpled to the floor in a dead faint.

Christine hurried to her side and knelt. Meg was a small girl, but Christine was frail herself. She could not lift her friend.

She knelt there vainly struggling to lift Meg, but suddenly her temper flared. Crossly she raised her head, gazing around at the silent furnishings as though they could tell her where he was.

"I know you're here, so you can just come out and help me," she called, her voice sharp with annoyance as she moved to cradle Meg's head in her lap.

Erik stood in absolute shadow, cursing the mad impulse which had prompted him to leave the necklace for her to find. He hadn't meant to frighten them so badly. He hadn't thought of the necklace still being warm from his hand when Christine touched it.

Her voice rose peevishly, almost startling him in its unusual tone of peremptory command. He stepped out silently, appearing before her in the doorway.

"Meg fainted," Christine continued sharply. "Help me put her on the bed."

He stood still for a moment, nonplussed by her matter-of-fact tones and her unaccustomed assertiveness.

Christine lifted Meg's shoulders expectantly. He moved forward and helped her lift Meg's limp body. Together they raised the unconscious ballerina onto the mattress.

He noted that Christine avoided his eyes, a tell-tale flaw in her seeming confidence. Of course, she thought he'd followed her here. Who knows what she'd been told about him.

"Your things are in that wardrobe," he told her, trying to seem casual. "I didn't see any point in keeping them any longer."

Christine took a short breath, seemed about to speak, then released it and closed her lips decisively.

"I thought I would leave them here for you," he continued. "I supposed that if you regained your memories, you might come down and find them." He tested Meg's pulse and touched her forehead, testing the temperature of her skin.

"You left the horse for me," Christine snapped, apropos of nothing. He felt his shoulders stiffen at the accusation in her tone. "I thought I could leave whenever I liked."

"I didn't stop you," he remarked, using all his skill in deception to make his voice seem mild and unconcerned.

"No, but you followed me here!" Christine began to chafe Meg's wrist so fiercely that Erik thought she was likely to bruise the girl's skin.

He turned his eyes on her sternly. "That is not true." And for a change, it wasn't. "In case you haven't been told, this is my home. I have lived here below the Opera since long before you were born." He took Meg's wrist from her and let it fall to the girl's belly. "You have come into my home of your own accord and without asking my permission."

Meg's lashes fluttered, unseen by either of them.

Christine blushed, then grew white, her voice shrill and shaky as she spoke. "Excuse me for my presumption!" She tossed her head sarcastically. "As I remember, you did not ask my permission when you abducted me from the Comte's care!"

"You consented to go with me," he whispered, his eyes blazing. "I had nothing to do with the accident which took Raoul de Chagny's life. I heard of it from gossip in the streets of the city. I did not pause to think that providence might have finally graced me with favor. I thought only of you. I had no idea how badly you might be injured. I thought only to go to you, to discover what had happened, and to comfort you if I could."

Christine fidgeted, her face growing hot.

"When you did not know me, when you did not even remember Raoul-- I could not help myself. I knew I could persuade you to follow me. But even though I did so, I did not lie to you or deceive you." He relaxed gradually, his mood briefly altering with the return of memory.

"If you could only have been content to respect my silence and keep your promise, there would have been no need for you to reclaim your past. My little Pandora," he sighed, relenting from his anger, caressing her cheek.

Christine finally raised her eyes to him, and he noted with faint surprise that her eyes were full, threatening to overflow onto her pale cheeks.

"Pandora," she whispered, and his lips rose in a sad smile.

"My beautiful Pandora, my only Delilah, the thief of my strength." He brushed a wisp of hair from her forehead. "You are free to do as you will, but never believe that you are not welcome to come to me." His eyes hardened in spite of his gentle words. "As long as you realize that I did not force you to accompany me."

"I beg your pardon." Christine's voice shook as she struggled to regain the advantage of temper. "I was hardly capable of making a rational decision at the time!"

"You were free to leave me whenever you chose," he rasped, his brief calm dispelled by her continued anger. "As you have said, the horse was there. I fully intended for you to use her if you pleased."

"You took advantage of me, nonetheless!" Christine affirmed her accusation, her eyes snapping.

Erik felt his temper flare, knew it would overmatch hers. "You did not feel that way before you broke your promise," he stepped forward, catching her wrists, barely restraining himself from shaking her. He paused, trying to marshal his irrational rising fury, his voice undebatable with truth. "While you still thought I was handsome, you were too willing to remain with me!"

"You can't speak to me that way," She jerked, trying to pull away from his firm grasp. "You can't--"

"I can, my dear," he said with slow intensity, silencing her. "You seem to forget, I can say anything I choose. This is my home. You are the intruder here."

Meg lay absolutely still, recovered from her faint but petrified by the argument, afraid to flicker an eyelash. She tried to nerve herself to intervene, should the Phantom become violent. If she did, he would only turn on the both of them. She tried to still a sudden bout of trembling.

"Then you are exactly what they told me," Christine hissed bitterly.

He flung her arms down, sensing beneath the blackening cloud of rage that if he did not, he would very likely break them. "If you believe that," he paused, searching for words that would adequately express his rage and his hurt, "then to Hell with you."

He turned abruptly and started to stalk out, then changed his mind, rounding on her. "Twice you left me," he informed her icily. "The first time after bribing me with the only kiss I had ever known. The second time you went without so much as a farewell, leaving me with a broken promise, and with the knowledge that you never wanted to lay eyes upon me again."

He shouldered out of his cloak, tossing it behind him to lie on the floor of the outer room. "You have your past," he hissed, taking a step toward her. "Does it please you? Are you happier now than you were before?"

Christine blushed, flustered. No words came, though he paused for her answer.

He laughed cruelly, removing the wide-brimmed black felt hat and tossing it to a table-top. "I venture to guess that what you've been told is true, if incomplete. Did it satisfy you? Did it sicken you, as my face does?"

Christine hung her head, confused, unable to answer.

"Would you like our past, now?" He moved close, tipping up her chin with irresistible strength. "Shortly after you graduated from the conservatoire, I discovered you living beyond the mirror which led to my home. I heard your voice. I heard you praying to your dead father. I lied to you, I claimed to be your Angel of Music, I brought you here. You unmasked me almost immediately. Did you truly believe you hadn't done that before? You are hardly original, but you are certainly consistent."

He laughed, suddenly sad and reflective. "My face repelled you, of course. After you saw it, there was not the slightest chance that I might win your love, even though you were comfortable here, and you seemed content with me. You learned from me. You sang so well that I obtained roles for you. You were magnificent. So much so that you caught the eye of the Vicomte de Chagny, and he fell in love with you.

"I was left in desperation. I wanted you to be mine, even though you did not love me." He paused, releasing her face. "I did what they've told you," he spoke soberly. "Every bit of it, do you understand? Every bit of it and more, and more that I did in the days before ever you met me. But this time, I did it because I was desperate to keep your love.

"It didn't work, of course. But in spite of that, I would have killed your Vicomte, if not for..." he trailed away, his eyes distant, then resumed after an interval of thought. "...If not for you, of course. You stole my resolve with a single kiss. And then you left me, and you married him."

With another sudden flare of temper he pushed her away and turned to the wall. His hand closed on a candle sconce, which he wrenched from its hook. With a sure aim, without looking, he hurled the piece of twisted metal through the door and to one side of the darkened room without, where it shattered glass that had stood out of her vision.

He seemed to regain some control of himself, drawing his shoulders up straight and turning to meet her eyes levelly. "I think," he mused, his mouth twisting in a humorless smile, "that I will make it easy for you. This time."

He stepped forward again, part of his mind observing that Meg had regained consciousness. Christine trembled as he approached, the same part of him noted clinically. But she made no move to flee, even as he slowly stepped behind her.

"I will leave you something to remember when you think of me," he informed her, his voice silken with anger and menace.

His hands closed on her shoulders. She flinched away from them instinctively, but the touch was gentle, as tender as any he had ever bestowed on her. He moved her hair aside, his fingers smoothing softly across her throat.

Meg watched from beneath one eyelid with disbelief. The Phantom gazed ardently at Christine, his long hands inexpressibly sensual, and his eyes suddenly grew dim, mellowing with love. His mouth brushed her temple lightly, trailing downward with a deliberate lack of haste. Christine's breathing rose and fell swiftly, her long lashes sinking to lie against her cheeks.

His hands smoothed the cloth of her dress, tracing the curve of her waist, resting lightly on her hips as his kiss savored her half-bare shoulder.

It was almost vampiric, the thorough, considerate attention he devoted to the soft flesh of Christine's throat as he re-traced the throbbing vein. It made Meg shudder to watch him, and yet her heart raced as she experienced the merest hint of the erotic spell he wove over Christine's mind and body. Christine moaned softly, sinking back against him, helpless to resist his seductive caresses.

His hands drew her body firmly to him, and for the first time he did as he had always longed to do. As he let his mouth linger over the pounding pulse below the tip of her earlobe, he slid his hands over her with deliberate, slow grace, tantalizing her without mercy, his fingertips and then his palms trailing hypnotically across the bare flesh above her low collar, sliding inside the fabric to find her warm, silken breasts with their taut, pulsing nipples.

"Do you still believe I would ever be forced to take you against your will?" Erik whispered against her perfumed skin. His hypnotic, resonant voice compelled an answer.

"No," Christine's admission blew away on the breath of a sigh.

"It doesn't matter, does it, how I look. Not when I touch you, not when I sing to you." He turned her face to him and savored her soft mouth, swallowing her answer, which was expressed by her complete surrender.

Meg shivered, begging heaven to allow her to sink through the floor. Anything to escape from this, from watching her friend be seduced. Anything to escape from fearing that she would be killed for what she had seen. To escape from fearing that she would have to lie and pretend to be unconscious while--

She gulped, closing her eyes and keeping them tight-shut.

"It would be beautiful between us, would it not?" Ignoring Meg, Erik turned Christine to face him, bent and kissed the hollow of her throat, his long, elegant hands still intimate on the firm curve of her breasts. She nodded, dazed, her lips parting, her eyes almost closed, her body limp in his arms.

"I hope you will remember this," he shoved her away with painful swiftness, "When you think of the horror of the monster you have scorned." His voice dripped with contempt.

Christine began to cry with huge, startled, gulping sobs, burying her face in her hands.

He stood back, considering her clinically, ignoring her tears, his plans changing. "I was once tempted to bargain with you," he remarked casually, a flare of mad hope lighting in his mind as he threw away all scruples, discarded the final notions of honor instilled by his brief contacts with society. "Your body for your past. I held the key to your life, to the secrets of your lost memory. I did not use my advantage.

"Perhaps that has been my mistake all along." He glanced at her keenly. "Perhaps bribery is the only language you understand."

He glanced at Meg, who lay stiffly, still pretending oblivion. He did not care to play to an audience in this particular scene, so he reached and caught Christine's arm firmly, steering her from the room and into the chamber which had once held his pipe organ. He closed the door firmly behind them.

Releasing her, he began to pace. He spoke abruptly, his face set in an inexpressive mood. "I have always taught you without asking for any reward other than the joy of hearing you perform. That is no longer the case. If you would prefer my instruction to that of those bumbling imbeciles in the conservatoire, then there will be a price to pay."

He halted before her, staring into her startled eyes. "I have always found it effective and satisfying to arrange my interaction with others in the form of business agreements," he spoke with a mocking tone. "In business, the mutual obligations... and the consequences of not meeting them... are clearly understood, do you not agree?"

He did not pause to allow her to respond. "I will return to the country. I intend to remain there in my cottage. You may attend lessons with me on the following condition. For each week that I teach you, you will spend two nights in my bed, acting in the capacity of my willing mistress."

Christine gasped, her face constricting with outrage and disbelief.

"Your portion of the bargain will become payable every sixth and seventh evening." He favored her with a thin, humorless smile. "In return, I will teach you for a minimum of two hours daily, for six days of the week. You may wish to attend dance sessions at the conservatoire each morning and then leave the city to spend your afternoons and evenings with me in the cottage. I will provide your transportation expenses, room, and board. You may consider that to be part of our agreement." He laughed shortly. "Or you may arrange your schedule as you prefer. Of course, you are free to decline the bargain altogether."

He scooped up his cloak, draping it over his shoulders with dignity. "If you choose to accept my generous offer, you will be free to discontinue the arrangement whenever you see fit, provided that you make fair and prompt payment in full of your obligation. If you do not, I shall consider it my right to collect my due recompense from you immediately, using any method I find necessary."

His gaze burned through her as he settled his fedora over his eyes. "I have the power to give you what you desire most in this world," he let his eyes flow over her in lingering study. "I do not believe you will allow such a slight matter as fear to stand in the way of practicality." He flicked his gaze away and then returned it to her slyly. "Or desire."

Christine stepped forward, her eyes blazing with fury, poised to slap him.

Erik caught her arm, forcing her to step closer. "I am not the devil, come to buy your soul," he whispered. "This bargain is only for your body. You have purchased your life from me before, for the price of a kiss. Now you may buy your fame from me as well, though it will cost you more dearly. Will you pass up this chance? Will you take the risk that someone who asks for less can teach you so well?"

Christine opened her mouth to argue, and he silenced her with a deep, savage kiss, pressing her tightly against him. "Come to me, and I will give you everything you desire," he whispered at last, lifting his mouth from hers. "Do not let your pride deceive you, my dear. There could be no more satisfying bargain than that which I offer you. I will give you your heart's deepest desire in return for my own."

He watched her struggling to regain her breath, hiding a secret smile. He would give her something she openly wanted in return for something she secretly desired. This bargain would spare her pride the blow of having to admit that she wanted him. He was sure in his heart that she would not decline it.

"I have to think," Christine gasped, her mouth only an inch below his. "Please, don't make me decide so soon. I don't know if I can agree to such an immoral--"

"You will," he whispered, his voice filled with assurance and almost savage hunger. "I know everything about you, Christine, and I know that you cannot resist this any more than you can resist my voice." He lowered his mouth to her breast, devouring the soft skin, unable to stop himself, pinning her body against the wall as he lifted one heavy, pliant globe from her tight, whalebone- stiffened bodice to find its taut pink nipple, drawing it into his mouth, his lips and tongue tugging at her fiercely, making her moan in helpless erotic response before she recovered enough dignity to shove at him frantically, her hands flailing feebly at him in a desperate effort to salvage her virtue and her pride.

At last he forced himself to release her, wiping his mouth with an uncharacteristically clumsy gesture. "It seems I owe you a song," he murmured thickly. "You must go now, or you will not receive your portion of our bargain before I have taken mine. I shall be ready to begin our lessons tomorrow."

He deftly opened the door to her room, where Meg still lay feigning unconsciousness. He raised his voice, its melodic timbre heavy with sarcasm. "Now, my dear Mademoiselle Giry, if you will be so kind to escort your friend away, and return me to my privacy."

Christine spent the next day defiantly at the conservatoire, trying not to notice how stupid and shallow the dancing girls seemed, or how frail the voices of her fellow students and even the instructors were in comparison to her own and that of her teacher.

No! Not her teacher. Never again. She would not bow to his heinous bargain.

Unconsciously she rubbed her palm across her breast, remembering against her will the ferocity of his kiss. Imagine, having to spend two nights in bed with a man in return for a week of singing lessons! Preposterous, really. An affront to her dignity, just as it had been when he forced her body to respond to his treacherously seductive hands.

Imagine the monster's gall, believing she would come to him!

"Christine!" The tight-lipped, faintly moustached spinster who was her vocal instructor brought a baton down to sting across her bare knuckles. "You will listen, or you will be dismissed!"

Christine stared up with blank resentment.

"It is an honor to be accepted here!" The sour-faced, aging woman snapped sharply. "Do you wish to return to the streets, to become a guttersnipe who can only boast of a dead noble husband and a murderous lover?" She let a mocking smile curl at one corner of her mouth. "Begin the breathing techniques, as I told you!"

Christine swallowed her angry retort and began her lesson again.

As she entered her room for the evening, she was unsurprised to find a sheet of white paper on her bed, intricately and mockingly folded into the shape of an angel with widespread wings. She unfolded it, reading the graceful script which lay within.

"Imagine. By now you might only have had five days to wait. Perhaps tomorrow you will reconsider."

The note was unsigned. She crumpled it in rage and threw it into her fire grate.

The next day passed similarly, with a similar note. Four.

Three days, and two, and one. Each night a note on her pillow, each day an annoying progression of unsympathetic, resentful masters and unfriendly girls. She entered her room on the sixth night with trepidation, eager and yet reluctant to find the customary note. She unfolded it with trembling fingers.

"Tonight you might have belonged to me. Instead, you find only a cold bed and a new week in which to wait. Consider well the songs we could have shared, and the pleasures we could have known. I will await you when the new week begins."

Christine sank down miserably on her bed to sulk, crossing her legs. She had learned nothing in seven days. During each single lesson Erik had given her, she had learned more than she had here in a whole week! These people were still measuring her voice, still teaching her the same boring breathing techniques she had mastered as a child while she lived with her father.

And she was lonesome, without a friend... during the day, Christine was busy with her classes. At night Meg Giry, who might otherwise have befriended her, performed at the Opera. Christine had not even the money to afford a seat there, where she might have whiled away the time by watching Meg perform. Such luxuries were reserved for the more accomplished students.

Furiously she snatched her travelling cloak and hurried to the stable where she had spent this week's share of the minute pension Phillipe de Chagny had finally reluctantly settled on her. The money was just enough to cover her fees at the conservatoire, with a tiny bit left over for Moll's keep. She rode out of Paris unaccompanied, not considering the considerable danger such carelessness presented for a lone woman.

Late in the evening she arrived at Erik's small cottage. No lights burned in the windows. Stabling Moll beside Red, she stamped into the kitchen, prepared to do verbal battle.

The small house was empty, though there was a fire burning low on the hearth.

Deflating visibly, she removed her cloak and tossed it aside. He must be asleep in his room. She bit her lip with irritation, then stalked into her own abandoned room, where her bed lay neatly made for her.

She arose the next morning to the scent of breakfast: crisp, sizzling bacon, buttered toast. She raised her eyebrows, startled. She had never witnessed him make any attempt to prepare food. Dressing quickly, since her clothes had reappeared in the wardrobe while she lay sleeping, she hurried to confront him.

Erik sat calmly finishing a hot drink.

She stood before him defiantly, her eyes flashing. "Teach me," she demanded at length when he did not speak.

He raised his eyes to her without hurry. "Do I have your promise?" he settled back easily to await her answer. "It is a promise you will keep if you make it," he assured her, steel underlying the velvet in his voice.

Christine fidgeted irritably, and finally nodded once, curtly.

"Your lessons will begin tomorrow," he accepted her terse response. "Today I am busy with other things."

She halted her next words in her throat, nearly choking with surprise.

He smiled faintly, his eyes never leaving hers. "I was to teach you daily for six days of the week," he reminded her. "I will have business to attend in Paris during the remaining day. On such of these business days as I am to be paid, you will await my return so that you may present your payment."

She sputtered with fury, stamping her foot.

"So impatient," he whispered, his smile growing devilish. "Seven days will pass swiftly in anticipation, do you not agree? Perhaps on the seventh day you will wish to await me in bed, so that we may begin all the more swiftly when I return."

Christine closed her mouth, her lips whitening with the tension of outrage. She stalked over to pour herself coffee. The faint tremor of fury in her wrist made her splash the hot liquid. She spoke a word Erik had not been aware she knew, lifting her scalded hand to her mouth.

"Allow me," he intercepted her hand and inspected the reddened patch. He held her hand between his own until she snatched it away, repeating the unladylike word.

He lifted a dignified brow, giving her an arch look. "Such disappointment," he laughed under his breath. "But you are injured now, and I would surely never waste my skill on an injured woman."

He left her, laughing, and Christine sat down to her breakfast thinking horrible vengeful thoughts.

It never occurred to her to simply pack and leave.

Her lessons began the following afternoon. She found herself keenly alert, aware of every nuance of his voice and instruction, responding to them with swift perfection. She could tell by the look in his eyes that she had pleased him. Finishing the three- hour session, she retired to her room with her head held high, to rest before supper. She had learned more today than she would have done in a month at the conservatoire. She did not let herself think of the obligation she had incurred, or of his insolent attitude toward her lack of anticipation for those duties.

Six more days passed, each leaving her exhilarated with her newfound abilities. She had almost forgotten the consequences of her progress by the end of the sixth lesson, interacting with him easily as she had done in the days when she did not know of his deformity. There had been no word of their bargain, after all, not since the day she arrived.

He finally ceased to sing, and she glanced out, discovering with surprise that the sky had grown quite dark.

Bread and butter stood on the table. She could not quite recall how the food had arrived there, but she sat down to eat anyhow, spreading the thick yellow butter slowly over the crusty white bread. She took a bite, chewing the soft, light bread with relish.

His hand settled lightly to her shoulder, a hesitant caress which brought sensibility and memory surging back. She glanced up with shock, meeting his calm look-- though there might have been a flicker of amusement, or perhaps uncertainty, in his blue eyes.

"What? Surely you don't mean to..." she trailed away as his expression grew stern.

"To hold you to your word? A bargain is a bargain, my dear. Of course, you may finish your supper first."

Christine's hand slowly settled back to the table, her appetite forgotten. She looked blankly at the bitten slice of bread, her stomach fluttering so that she did not know if she could swallow another bite.

"And yet, if you are not hungry," he murmured, and Christine hastily picked up her open-faced butter sandwich, making herself bite into it and chew, though she could hardly taste her mouthful.

"Not tonight," she whispered, barely audible, after she had swallowed. "I'm not ready. Let's wait until tomorrow. Just one more day. You owe me a song, give me a day at least."

He moved around the table and seated himself across from her, his expression set, unyielding. "I believe our bargain said that I might use any method I found necessary to ensure your prompt repayment," he spoke firmly, truly hoping it would not come to that, yet filled with a terrible fear that it must, if it were to happen at all. For though she did not know it, he had known all along that he was bluffing, to gain her cooperation. He would die before forcing her. All he meant to give her now was an excuse, really: he had wagered his last hope on the chance that an excuse might be all she required.

She glanced up, her face stricken. "Oh," she whispered faintly.

He sat, watching her eat slowly, her startled blue eyes fleeting to his face every few moments to see if he had relented. Finally a second, and then a third, slice of bread was gone. She could not swallow another crumb, she realized distantly, her heart giving an odd thump.

She trembled as he stood, his dignity perfect and imposing.

"My dear," he gestured slowly toward his room. She shook her head, shrinking away, and he caught her wrist. Her straight chair flew as she rose, her thighs striking against it. "The bargain was made, and will be kept," he whispered silkily. "You are mine tonight."

Christine felt the emerging force of his power paralyzing her through touch, voice, and gaze. He drew her with him, his long elegant hand holding hers lightly, and she followed him with tiny slow steps, feeling as if time stretched, thinning down toward infinity like a flow of thick honey as he brought her to his bed using the sheer strength of his will.

She stood shivering as he turned back the coverlet and sheet. He lifted her hands in his own, feeling the chill of tension in her fingers.

She watched numbly as he reached into his pocket. He brought out a simple gold band, which he slipped onto the ring finger of her left hand. His bride for a night. The ring weighed on her finger heavily, and she watched the light playing on its polished surface.

He bent to kiss her, the brush of his mouth feather-soft and almost timid, his hands lifting her heavy curling hair from her neck. She dimly felt her body respond to the touch, as though in a dream.

Small, disjointed details preoccupied her mind: the glow of light fractured in her own silky clean curls, the breath of a draft on her shoulder as his hand bared it, the slow, velvety fall of her dress. It lay at her ankles within moments, and she still stared vaguely at the shining golden ring on her left hand, which had somehow risen to his black-clad shoulder. Her chemise whispered away, and she heard herself sigh, feeling it come in rhythm with his own deep, sobbing breath, as his shoulders rose and fell beneath her hands.

She wore only his ring now, stepping out of her slippers at his gentle urging, her feet coming into contact with the cool wooden floor.

Then his chest was bare before her eyes, his skin pale, his muscles firm and elegantly defined. She felt herself pinken and flush hot with embarrassment, not meeting his eyes. His hands slid down her back. Her muscles tightened shyly, and then with a swift movement of his powerful arms, she was on her back, the sheets of his bed soft and cool beneath her. He caressed her wrists, holding them for a moment firmly on either side of her head. The pillow was a satiny fluff against her cheek. Then she bore his weight, and gasped at the unexpectedly exquisite sensation as their bodies met, freed of the barrier of clothing.

He kissed her breathlessly, until her head spun. Her thighs parted, she knew a brief stab of fierce pain, and with a cry she lost her final sensation of detachment, surrendering all objectivity, her frightened eyes at last seeking his. His expression was glazed with urgent pleasure, his breathing unsteady. He moved hard inside her, and she cried out again, desperately, writhing helpless beneath him, unsure whether she was attempting to escape or merely cooperating in the savage motions of his taking.

It was finished swiftly, leaving her breathless, uncertain. With a final hoarse gasp, he collapsed onto her. His breathing began to slow. She lay completely still for a moment, a whimper held in the back of her throat. She realized with a shock that she wanted him to continue. It had happened too quickly. She was his.

He slipped off her, lying on his side and gathering her up in his arms with infinite gentleness, his long, graceful fingers stroking her trembling shoulders tenderly. Too shy to meet his satiated, inquiring gaze, she buried her face in his chest, releasing her pent-up whimper even as she clung to him for reassurance.

He sang her to sleep whisper-softly, basking in the afterglow of his pleasure, glorying in the feel of her within his arms. She had not resisted him, in the end. She had accompanied him more willingly than he had ever dared to dream she might.

He would not disappoint her. The next time would be for her, so that she could discover the bliss she had given him. Kissing her gently, he let his eyes close, and joined her in sleep.

Warm morning sunlight crept across the meadow, rousing songbirds to insistent melody. Christine finally stirred in luxuriant warmth, sighing. Her lashes fluttered and opened. Next to her, Erik slept, his arm across her, a gently possessive gesture.

She was his. It was something to consider, something to be accepted. Again she felt an eerie sense of detachment, her eyes playing across his scarred cheek, barely visible in the dim glow which leaked under the loose-fitting door. She realized with surprise that she could not remember whether he had worn the mask while he made love to her.

She raised her hand, brushing a tangled lock of hair from her eyes. He did not stir, which was just as well. She had a great deal to consider.

An uncharitable impulse prodded at her beneath the calm peace of her mind, nagging at her without real emotional insistence. Her mind considered the idea that she should panic, throw a tantrum, or run from him again. She found it astonishingly easy to ignore the faint prompting. It was more a habit than anything else. There was nothing to lose by staying with him, not since her pride had finally been vanquished.

Quietly she pushed the tiny voice out of her mind, and deliberately took stock of herself. She was not uncomfortable or in pain. He had hurt her only briefly. And more importantly, he had not forced her-- she had not made him force her. While she had been passive rather than eager, she had not refused her consent. That made a difference, she knew. If he had forced her, the faint panic at the back of her mind would have been a torrent, a tidal wave of fear and loathing.

But it was not.

Lying in Erik's bed, Christine examined her own emotions in total honesty for the first time. Last night had exposed her fears for what they were: childish, unworthy prejudices, unfair judgments, exaggerated excuses, and the universal fear which any timid maiden would have felt at going in to any man, not something which was limited to herself and Erik.

It was nice to lie here, she reasoned at last, her sense of perfect calm growing stronger. She felt secure. Surely there could be no other place that felt so safe and warm as lying here within his arms.

Perhaps he had even been wise to take control of the situation at last, to bring her to this moment, proving for once and for all that her fears and loathings were unfounded. She felt the corners of her mouth curve slightly, in amusement at herself. What had she been so frightened of? He was only a man, a man who she loved, and now she was a woman. No longer a child, to be fearful and to shrink from her own neurotic imagination. A woman, made to love and to be loved.

Past the mask, past the childish loathing of ugliness at last, she took her first tentative steps into acceptance. She snuggled closer to him. Timidly at first, but then with growing confidence, she pressed her lips to his sleeping face.

End.


End file.
